


Short Leap to Never Was

by raven_aorla



Series: Our Agency [8]
Category: 18th Century CE RPF, 19th Century CE RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Bittersweet, But sometimes actually sweet, Canon LGBTQ Character, Drama, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Gen, Healing, M/M, Multiple canon LGBTQIA+ characters, Other, References to Abuse, References to Homophobia, Romantic Insecurity, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 00:00:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,556
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21907852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raven_aorla/pseuds/raven_aorla
Summary: A few years after Old Fritz faked his death and left his criminal empire behind to attempt a quieter life, his partner hires a professional to find the final resting place of Fritz's murdered first love. Francesco just wants Fritz to be able to let Hans go. However, the results are nowhere near that simple.[A direct sequel to the plot and themes of "Long Journey to Now" and takes place after "Prince of Flowers" within this AU continuity. Friendly to new readers.]
Relationships: Francesco Algarotti/Friedrich II von Preußen | Frederick the Great, Friedrich II von Preußen | Frederick the Great & Wilhelmine von Preußen | Wilhelmine of Prussia, Friedrich II von Preußen | Frederick the Great/Hans Hermann von Katte, Peter Karl Christoph von Keith/Hans Hermann von Katte
Series: Our Agency [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/585238
Comments: 25
Kudos: 19





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mildred_of_midgard](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mildred_of_midgard/gifts).



> I never would have started this without mildred_of_midgard giving me the idea and providing historical info, as well as brainstorming with me and cheering me on.
> 
> As in all my historical RPF, everyone is *inspired* by a real person rather than meant to be a direct representation of them. Be sure to read the end notes for some fun historical tidbits.

The lady reporter sounded more French than Swiss, but the inmate she’d managed to arrange an interview with was originally German anyway. He’d learned enough French in his time here that they could communicate despite her only basic scraps of his own native language. She said she was doing an in-depth piece on the many foreigners being held in Swiss prisons, especially for lengthy sentences. And his was lengthy indeed. She was pretty, in her thirties with long dark hair falling over her shoulders and retro cat’s-eye glasses. He tried not to stare.

After the first few questions, she removed a slender remote control of some kind from her purse and clicked it twice. She leaned forward, her elbows pressing onto the table between them. “Monsieur, I’m not really doing a piece on the Swiss prison system. I want to know about when you worked for Friedrich Wilhelm Senior.”

He felt his mouth go dry, even though the tyrant was long dead. “Who sent you?”

“Not who you think, whatever you’re thinking. Because I don’t care what crimes you’ve done.” She held up the little remote and dangled it from her fingers. “This little thing turns off security cameras for exactly one minute and thirty seconds before it becomes noticeable. You can have it if you tell me what happened to Hans Katte after you shot him in the head.”

****

Charles-Genevieve “Chev” Beaumont d’Eon didn’t remove the wig until they were safely in their hotel room. They called up their friend and tech support, Ada Lovelace, using a video chat program she’d created. Skype would have worked fine, but she’d had a sprained ankle one weekend and gotten bored.

“He took the bait,” Chev said. “Are you sure you and Charles tweaked the jammer so it wouldn’t work again? I don’t want to burn another identity just because I accidentally facilitated a prison break.”

“Cabbage and I know what we’re doing,” Ada said, grinning. “So, what’d you find out?”

“I think I need to drink half this minibar before I tell anyone.”

****

_“Mi amore?”_

“Yes, Francesco?”

“You know how my brother gave me a large sum of money to launder, and normally I wouldn’t help launder money but he asked very very very nicely and…”

“It’s three in the morning, please do get to the point.”

“I spent much of it on hiring Chev to do some detective work. Just a little. About your. Uh. Past.”

“Okay, we’re going to have a conversation later about you doing business with the Agency, which makes me uncomfortable. For now, please rip off the plaster.”

“Fritz, I’m not sure -”

“Rip. It.”

Francesco Algarotti coughed delicately, looking at his phone again as if some echo of the phone call he’d just woken up to take in the hallway were to be found there. “Well, Chev found Hans’ resting place.”

Fritz turned on his bedside lamp so fast that the lamp actually fell off the nightstand.

****

It’s not a tale as old as time, thank God.

However, it’s a tale as old as a wound somewhere deep inside the man once known as Friedrich “Frederick” Wilhelm II, the great king and conqueror of a vast network of organized crime, stretching through several European nations. It’s far older than the scars on his right hand from the time he punched a mirror for showing him his father’s face. It’s younger than the scars on his back which explain _why_ he’d punch a mirror for such a thing. Not much younger, though.

Being the son of a domineering father who was also crime lord didn’t put Fritz in a position to make many friends. Hans had been hired as teenage Fritz’s bodyguard, but had not stayed merely that for very long. When Fritz was eighteen, they’d tried to make a break for it. Get out of his father’s shadow. They hadn’t made it.

_"If it wouldn't be so inconvenient to start over from scratch, I'd consider having you executed as well. I don't take desertion lightly." His father steeples his fingers. "These are your choices: silently and attentively watch him receive a single bullet to the head, or not watch him get cut into small pieces over a period of days."_

Fritz blinked and came back to himself. He was in a kitchen. His kitchen, small and warmly lit with that floorboard which always squeaked when Francesco put anything in the oven. It was raining outside, and it was not Europe out there, nor was it surrounded by security guards. The little dog padding over to him, whimpering hopefully, had never attacked anyone in her life unless they were carrying anything that smelled like peanut butter but wasn’t for her. Francesco was making tea. He had been talking completely unheard for several minutes, but as a supportive partner to a PTSD sufferer - and a long-suffering Philosophy of Science professor at the nearby college - he was used to that.

“...been so down, _caro_ , even for you, and I knew it wasn’t any important anniversaries because I checked my notes.”

“You take notes?” Fritz asked, shifting so Mimi could jump onto his lap.

“You have a terribly complicated past and quite a lot of triggers, and I figure if your therapist finds it needful...all under lock and key and cryptic passwords, don’t worry.” Francesco paused in his search for sugar cubes and gave him a fond look. Having grown up in a large and loving extended family where three-fourths of the adults did business with the Mafia, gentle Francesco made no fuss about Fritz’s origins except for the ways it had hurt him.

“I’m rather busy worrying about that bombshell you dropped on me.” Fritz’s hands shook a little as he scratched behind Mimi’s ears.

“I’m sorry I went behind your back on this, but I didn’t want to leave you on meathooks the entire time Chev was searching.” The kettle whistled and Francesco began pouring out the water into the matching teacups and fiddling with teabags. He frequently did something small and busy with his hands when he was nervous, like his fingers became possessed by the souls of little pet mice.

“Tenterhooks.”

“Right. But I thought you could use some closure for something you never really got over.”

“I don’t have the energy to try to pretend otherwise,” Fritz said.

“Let’s look at flights to Switzerland in the morning. We can use the money we were saving for our next vacation. I can manage a week off, say it’s a family emergency. The only class I’m teaching this semester is one I’ve taught before, and I’ve recorded all the lectures in case I got badly ever sick again, and I can make the students watch online and email me their assignments.” Francesco brought the tea over and sat across from Fritz. “You don’t need to do this alone.”

“Thank you. I...he had family in the German-speaking part of Switzerland, I think. That’s, that’s nice.” Fritz didn’t bother to wait until the tea cooled. Let it scald his tongue and throat.

****

They arranged the trip to Zürich as hastily as possible and left their dog in the care of Friedrich von Steuben, who’d been Fritz’s faithful right-hand-man and something of a lover, once upon a time. Friedrich had run off to America some years before Fritz decided he couldn’t stand being “Frederick the Great” any longer, and had helped Fritz settle nearby. Just as importantly, Friedrich was equally fond of Italian Greyhounds and Mimi was already friends with the elderly Azor.

“Are you sure this is wise?” Friedrich asked Fritz and Francesco (all these F’s!) yet again as he drove them to the airport.

“Sometimes I wish I could still tell you to shut up without it being rude,” Fritz grumbled.

“It was always, mm, rude, I just held my tongue back then,” Friedrich said serenely. The anger management therapy had done wonders for his mood, and a new treatment had strongly reduced his past speech issues.

Francesco squeezed Fritz’s hand. “I’m an expert on wisdom and logic.”

Friedrich snorted. “Don’t forget to give Chev Pierre’s present. They miss each other badly and I get to hear all about the drama.”

Fritz was about to say _you either need to collect fewer young men half your age to play with or stop sharing them with spies-for-hire if you want to avoid drama_ , but a voice in his head that sounded rather like his sister reminded him that he was just being nasty as a defense mechanism. Besides, if Friedrich hadn’t been involved with Pierre, Fritz and by extension Francesco would never have known about Chev, and this journey wouldn’t be happening. So he watched the scenery go by and listened to the classical radio station Friedrich put on shortly after. Which was thoughtful of him.

Getting through the various security checkpoints was stressful, given that Fritz was carrying forged papers. His real identity was supposed to have died of a stroke in Germany. Francesco offered him a sleeping pill once they made it onto the plane. They'd been legitimately prescribed to Fritz, but both of them felt better if Francesco was the tranquilizers' keeper. Fritz wasn't good at telling the difference between a shameful weakness and responsible management of his health. He was good at trusting the man currently sniffling over the in-flight movie while Fritz leaned on his shoulder and drifted off.

“Were you watching _Call Me By Your Name_ again?” Fritz asked soon after Francesco roused him so that he could move his seat to an upright position in preparation for landing.

Francesco chuckled. “You know me too well.”

Chev, waiting at the baggage claim to pick them up, was nearly unrecognizable in corduroy pants and a gray jacket that was missing a button. Fritz and Francesco might have walked right past Chev if they hadn’t been holding a large sign that said ALGAROTTI on it. Fritz had never seen Chev with any facial hair before, but here they were sporting a hipster-stubble sort of faint beard, as well as a faint fake scar high on their right cheekbone, like they’d been slashed deeply with a blade there years ago.

“Nice prosthetic,” Fritz mumbled, still somewhat out of it. Francesco was in full possession of his faculties and actually shook Chev’s hand like a normal polite person. Chev took the one rolling suitcase the two of them were sharing, having otherwise packed light with a satchel each, plus Fritz’s flute case.

“Shh, I’m working,” Chev reproached Fritz, but with good humor. They beckoned the others to follow and said at a low volume, “Glad you like the scar. The backstory I made up is downright heart-wrenching.”

“I’m sure. Could you please take us somewhere we can get a quick dinner before we settle in?” Francesco held up a hand before Fritz could say anything. “You’re going to eat something, Fritz, because once we’re in the hotel room there will be no moving either of us until morning.”

“Then let’s get something to go.” Fritz didn’t have much of an appetite right now, but he’d be willing to push himself as long as he didn’t have to deal with crowds.

****

Francesco had made a reservation for a comfortable, though not luxurious, hotel near the modest block of flats Chev had been staying while tracking down their quarry. It was a suite so that Francesco had a good space to telecommute. There’d be no time for sightseeing, but both of them had been to Switzerland before, even if this was the first time Fritz had brought no weapons of any kind. Francesco invited Chev to stay with them for the “indoor picnic” of food they’d grabbed on the way.

As much as Fritz loved one of these people and liked the other, he couldn’t really focus on what the two of them were discussing. It mostly seemed to be Francesco and Chev’s shared interest in artisanal cheeses. He dutifully consumed food he couldn’t taste until he stopped feeling as hollow. Then he interrupted Chev in the middle of a sentence. “When are we leaving tomorrow, and which cemetery is it? Francesco said it would be better to ask you for details.”

Never had Fritz seen the color go out of Francesco’s face like that, and Francesco also started fiddling with his artfully draped scarf with the little-mouse hands. Chev remained composed and asked, “Shall I?”

“Shall you what?” Fritz said, in a deceptively calm tone that once meant someone other than him was about to bleed. He’d never ever use that tone on Francesco, but habits were hard to unlearn and some part of his brain must have still thought of Chev as a henchperson (or even worse, a rival crime boss’ henchperson, given that Chev’s assignments were brokered by the gilded asshole Mr. 15) rather than a friend.

At Francesco’s slight nod, Chev fished a tiny recording device from somewhere inside their shirt. Fritz didn’t care to speculate. “This is the actual private conversation I managed to have with Robert Keith, who used to work for...uh...your father...but was arrested by Swiss authorities on multiple murder charges while carrying out his orders in the country. He’s been incarcerated since then.”

The conversation was in French, Chev’s voice softer and warmer than usual, which meant they’d been passing for female at the time. (Fritz had noticed that Chev didn’t tend to change the pitch of their very ambiguous voice, but rather the timbre.)

_CHEV: Mr. Keith, please begin with what you saw concerning Katte’s death._

_KEITH: Well, uh, Wilhelm Senior wanted his son to watch, but Junior fainted right when the executioner was about to fire. So Senior shouted, “Hold your fire!” And, and told us that his son wasn’t going to get out of it that easy and to take Katte away and work him over a bit more, increase the distress his appearance was going to cause, and we’d restage it tomorrow. But I got to thinking that it would be a shame to kill Katte on Senior’s orders when he was an old man and Junior, who wanted Katte alive more than anything, was going to inherit the business. I thought he’d probably be very grateful to anyone who could produce Katte once it was safe for them to be together. I didn’t give a shit about homosexuality - I knew my brother Peter was into men and didn’t mind that. Peter didn’t work with us on a regular basis, but I recommended him once as extra manpower on a bank robbery when we were short of hands. He used his middle name Karl when negotiating his pay with Wilhelm Senior, so his first name wasn’t known to anyone else in the gang but me. Which meant...um…no, I shouldn’t. I don’t want to betray him._

_CHEV: If you finish your story, you get your reward, and if you don’t, I know ways to make life much more awful for you._

_KEITH: Fine, fine! I called up my brother during my break and proposed a plan to him, and when it was my shift to watch Katte that night I did my best to explain the plan to him as well. He wasn’t entirely coherent but he consented to me smuggling him out to Peter, who’d take him across the border and look after him and keep him safe until I gave both of them the all-clear. Only I was a fucking idiot and ended up here before Wilhelm Junior even came to power, so I never -_

“Turn it off now,” Fritz said, burying his face in his hands. He couldn’t breathe for a moment.

“I’ve spent seven weeks gaining Peter and Hans’ trust and verifying their identities,” Chev said slowly. “They’re a lovely couple. Invited me to lunch at their home tomorrow. I asked if I could bring two friends, and they said fine. That’s all I told them.”

Fritz’s throat hurt. His everything hurt. He felt dizzy and nauseous. If the joy of finding out someone you thought was dead was like getting to eat an unexpected and delicious cupcake, finding out someone you thought was dead and had been unable to stop mourning for more than thirty years was still alive was like being surprise-force-fed an entire wedding cake in mere minutes. He felt Francesco put a hand on his shoulder and shrugged him off.

“Did you know what was in that recording?” Fritz uncovered his face so he could give Francesco a searching look.

“I don’t speak French,” Francesco said, tugging harder at his own scarf.

Fritz got to his feet. “Spare me your philosopher logic. ‘Resting place’, how clever. Did your little private investigator tell you the gist, then?”

“We didn’t think you’d be able to fly in the state of mind you are now.”

Chev cleared their throat. “Blame me, if you gotta blame someone.”

Fritz breathed like he’d learned in therapy. In for six, hold for six, out for six. “Francesco, I love you. And because I love you, I need you to leave me alone for two hours so I do not say or do something that causes you pain I would not normally want to cause you.”

Francesco stood up very straight and his face was blank. Part of Fritz thought _oh no, I’m hurting him already_ , but the part of him that was still Frederick the Great thought _good, look at his contrition._ “Okay. But promise you’ll either call your therapist or your sister, and Chev is not going to leave.”

“We don’t have to be in the same room,” Chev clarified. “I’ll read a book out here if you want to have a meltdown in there.”

“Not helping,” Fritz said. Though he was, in fact, less angry at Chev, as he believed Chev lied to and manipulated absolutely everyone. If Chev was fond of a person, Fritz was willing to imagine that the manipulation was what Chev perceived as that person’s own good, but regardless, expecting openness from Chev was like expecting enthusiasm about sporting events from Francesco.

“Do you promise?” Francesco asked. “If so, I’ll be in the cafe downstairs.”

Part of Fritz wanted to embrace him and kiss him and apologize for being so unpleasant when he understood Francesco’s logic, but another part wanted to shout at him and tear him down, and that part could not be allowed any opportunity to do so until it faded away. He settled for nodding. Once Francesco was gone, Fritz grabbed his tablet and the half-drunk wine and locked himself in the bedroom.

He didn’t want to speak English right now, and he did want to talk to the only person who’d comforted him the first time around. The only person who’d always supported and loved him his entire life, even though they’d spent so much of it apart.

Thank God that Mina answered his Skype call quickly. Seeing her face was a balm in and of itself, unfinished eye makeup and all. “Switzerland must disagree with you; you look terrible,” she said.

He laughed faintly, kicked off his shoes, and curled up sideways on top of the bedclothes. “I should be happy. Instead I’m too busy being angry and miserable and a bad partner.”

“Tell me about it.”

So he did, embellished with frustrated swearing and exclamations about if only he had known, and the times he’d been to this very city completely unaware, and knowing that so much of the pain of his life had been entirely unnecessary.

“First of all, your reaction is a lot more normal than you think it is,” she said in soothing tones. “And it hasn’t been just about Hans for you for a long time. You use him to mourn the future you wanted with him and the freedom from Father you never managed to achieve. You can’t stop a train right away by slamming the brakes, but that doesn’t mean the train will never stop.”

“I suppose,” he said.

“I honestly thought you might kill yourself over that. Aren’t you glad you didn’t?”

He laughed again, still faintly but with a hint of something resembling amusement this time. “You’d be out a second parental figure for Sophia, I suppose.”

“MOOOOOOOM WE’RE GONNA BE LAAAAAATE!” shouted Sophia from off-camera, right on cue. She sounded more and more American every day, even though it felt like just yesterday that Fritz had arranged for them to be whisked away from Europe for their own safety after some of his enemies had gone after them.

“She has cello practice,” Mina said. “But we can be late.”

“You don’t need to be late, I’ll manage.” Sophia had taken up the cello fairly recently but excelled at it. Her mother’s musical genes, no doubt.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

Mina propped her phone up and went back to applying mascara. “Give Francesco my love. Apologize, but don’t grovel. Focus on letting him know how much you appreciate his patience and consideration. Maybe buy him something nice. He bought you something very nice, after all.”

Something tentative and warm bloomed in Fritz’s ribcage, clearing away some of the tightness. “Yes, your Highness. But what do I do about the meeting tomorrow?”

“Start out slow and treading lightly, then build on the intensity. You’re a very intense person and I’m sure he’s going through a lot of the same emotions you are. Focus on the happiness of knowing he’s been alive and safe and not alone.”

“I’ll try not to be a wreck.”

She put down her mascara wand and adjusted her necklace so it was centered. “Go ahead and be a wreck, just be tidy with your wreckage among your fellow wrecks. Would you like Sophia to say hi?”

“WHAT ARE YOU DOING?” Sophia shouted.

“TALKING TO YOUR UNCLE! HE’S UPSET!”

“I’M UPSET TOO!”

“You should get going,” Fritz said.

“I love you, little messy brother.” She waved.

Breathe in for six, hold for six, out for six. “I love you too, big tidy sister.”

He emerged from the bedroom to get his flute case, waving at Chev who was reading a French novel and whose facial hair had mysteriously vanished. He needed to practice a piece he hadn’t played in a long time.

****

A fun fact about Francesco: when he slept in the same bed as someone else, he slept however the other man or woman wanted. He always said he was most comfortable when the other person (or on a handful of occasions, the other people) was comfortable. But he’d once confessed to Fritz that his favorite thing was being little spoon. They didn’t do that often, because Fritz was prone to overheating if he cuddled for too long.

After all the kissing and making up with each other and sending Chev on their way, Fritz held Francesco perfectly that night. Francesco wasn’t sure how much sleep Fritz could get this way, but when he asked Fritz about it after Francesco’s 2 AM pee run, Fritz said, “With great affection, I am asking you to stop being such a people-pleaser for a few hours and get back here. I’d have insomnia anyway, might as well have it while pleasantly occupied.”

A certain imp of insecurity (an impsecurity? no, that sounded like an adorable cartoon character) wouldn’t leave Francesco alone. But at least he dreamed of falling into a vat of infinite citrus fruits rather than of the thing he was really worried about.

****

Hans and Peter had founded their book club six years ago when they wanted another avenue to practice French and also wanted to find some non-straight people to socialize with. They read novels and nonfiction and sometimes poetry, usually on LGBTQ+ themes but not always, meeting once a week at a library for discussions and once a month at a restaurant for a fun meal. Peter maintained a no-frills webpages for it that included a few photos of club members doing club things. One of the group shots showed Peter in it, but with nobody’s names attached he figured any risk was minimal.

Hans had refused to be shown on the site at all, less out of fear of discovery by some kind of enemy after so many decades, more out of self-consciousness about his appearance. He’d regained almost all of his mobility over time as Peter nursed him back to health, but the cuts and burns that included a lot of his face had never fully faded. At least he’d kept his nose and eyes and everything that mattered. And life.

At first, Hans had worried about what Frederick would think of his face when they were reunited. Two years later, he’d worried about whether he was developing feelings for Peter beyond friendship, gratitude, and the fake cousinhood they were putting on for appearances. Five years later, Hans had worried about being forced to choose between his new relationship and old love, and hoped that Peter’s confession that he’d also developed a crush on Frederick when temporarily working with him might lend itself to some kind of compromise. Fifteen years later, Hans and Peter no longer had any hope Robert was both alive and at liberty, but hadn’t known what they could do about it without drawing attention to themselves. They didn’t even know if Frederick himself was alive and at liberty. Eventually all these worries ended up in the back of Hans’ mind, overshadowed by the day-to-day concerns of the quiet life he and Peter had carefully built together.

Concerns like what to wear when company was coming.

“Just wear the blue shirt and stop dithering,” Peter said, fondly exasperated. “I need help finding my glasses.”

To be contrary, Hans put on the brown shirt, then joined the search. Beyond Peter’s fairly standard short-sightedness, his left eye was permanently turned inward, giving an incomplete cross-eyed look. His glasses helped compensate for the focusing issues this caused. The extended teasing about that squint when he was young, to the point of most of his peers calling him “Picasso”, had made Peter honestly unaware that he was a total hottie. If an annoyingly absent-minded one.

“It’s not like we have a big place,” Peter complained as he got down on all fours to check under the dresser.

“It is like you got pretty drunk last night. And glasses don’t _roll_.” Hans realized that nobody was watching the stove, so he headed for the kitchen to make sure the soup wasn’t burning.

“But we won the match!” Peter called after him.

“You make it sound like you were personally responsible rather than yelling at the TV in your underpants.”

“I was motivating them! YOU become very motivated by me in my underpants!”

Hans lowered the temperature and started stirring with a wooden spoon to prevent the soup from boiling over. “Sadly, yes I do.”

Peter’s snicker was clear from the bedroom. “Don’t be nervous about Stephen, meine Katze.” The only way in which Hans’ original surname lived on was in the silly nickname Peter had called him to cheer him up back when they were mere acquaintances, which had turned gradually into an endearment. Hans didn’t think of himself as particularly catlike, but given what Peter had gone through as a child, maybe he didn’t want an accurate nickname anyway.

“I’m not nervous about Stephen, I’m nervous about the guests we said he could bring. Why did we say that?”

“You’re the one who said it.”

“I thought you’d had the good grace to share the blame in my time of anguish. Shit, they’ll be here any minute now.”

Stephen had wormed his way into Hans’ heart and made him forget his usual caution. The young American legal clerk who’d been transferred to his company’s Zürich branch had been bright, witty, and very lonely, with excellent French and manners but next to no German or familiarity with the city. They’d ended up taking him to their favorite places to eat or drink and had gotten his life story out of him, with the sorts of struggles that Hans empathized with. Ones he’d hoped today’s generation would have been free from by now, given how much more open and accepting so many countries were as a whole - just not individual families, apparently.

“Any friend of Stephen’s is going to like you too,” Peter said, entering the kitchen but still missing his glasses. “Focus on showing him your paintings. That’s what he wants to see in the first place. The conversation will go from there.”

Then the doorbell rang. Hans didn’t trust Peter to look through the peephole, so he handed Peter the wooden spoon and went to the door.

His heart started pumping like mad at what he saw, and he darted back to Peter’s side. “I know it can’t, I know it can’t possibly, but, but, but…”

“What is it?” Peter put an arm around him.

“Stephen’s out there with two other men, and one of them looks like Wilhelm Senior. Except our age, which doesn’t make sense, so it’s got to be me jumping to wild conclusions, right? Right?”

“Right,” Peter said. He was about to say something else, but then the music started.

Then the music _reminded._ A stolen moment a long, long time ago.

_I’ve never written a musical composition before, so this is probably going to sound like an innocent songbird being interrogated, but I wanted to try it for you._

It really wasn’t a good song. It had never been. But it was flute music, and a piece only one person other than Hans could possibly know.

Hans yanked the front door open. “Frederick?”

The man in front of him (he looked so scared, did they both look like that?) handed the flute to Stephen. His voice was so much smaller than the rest of him. “Hans?”

Hans grabbed him by the front of his jacket and practically dragged him over the threshold. “Come here, come here, come in and come here right now. I have so many questions and I probably owe you an apology too…”

Frederick simply clung to him and cried. The rest could wait.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- In real life, Peter Karl Cristoph von Keith was in on the "flee to England" scheme, but was ultimately the only one who made it. I did not make up his interest in men or the fact that he had "a squint", though I interpreted that my own way. 
> 
> \- mildred_of_midgard informed me that Peter's brother Robert was the one who panicked and confessed the whole thing to Friedrich Wilhelm Sr. in exchange for amnesty, so I decided his modern counterpart should be the sacrificial lamb for Chev to be able to track down behind bars.
> 
> \- Disclaimer: the real Chevalier(e) d'Eon was not in a position to share what d'Eon's actual preferred pronouns would have been under ideal circumstances, as opposed to using either "he" or "she" as needed for spy work and personal survival. So my Chev's use of they/them is specific to the character, and I mean no misgendering.
> 
> \- For longtime readers of this series: don't worry, Pierre and Chev's relationship is fine. Chev's simply focused on work right now.
> 
> \- For new readers of this series, Ada Lovelace the computer whiz and her friend "Cabbage" the gadget guy are my tribute to the friendship between Ada, Countess of Lovelace, and Charles Babbage, which produced some of the very earliest computer technology. I don't care that they're from a different century from the rest of the cast, haha. I'm ignoring the 18th-century folks' real age differences as it is.
> 
> \- Azor was a real Italian greyhound that von Steuben brought to America with him. Frederick the Great also loved Italian greyhounds, but Mimi in this story is named after a pet monkey he had. 
> 
> Thank you for reading, and I would love to know what you think. More to come!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, young Frederick and Hans' relationship began when F. was 17 and H. was 23. In present-day Germany, 16 is the general age of consent. (And 14-year-olds can consent to partners between 14-21 years old.) However, in West Germany at that time, the consent age for specifically male/male sex was 18, due to a homophobic double standard. I don't consider this a story that contains any past underage, because having two sets of ages depending on if the sex is hetero is not valid, imo. But I wanted to give full disclosure.

_Then_

Hans woke in a haze of agony and the bouncing sway of airplane turbulence. His instinct was to make a noise, but his training held firm enough that he first tried to get his bearings while still appearing to be passed out. He was strapped to something soft, but loosely, as if to keep him from falling off rather than to keep him from escaping. All he could hear was the hum of engines. He chanced cracking one eye the tiniest sliver open. 

There was a face much too close to his, belonging to a man who looked to be in his mid-twenties and with one oddly crooked eye. He looked as startled as Hans felt and said in an urgent German whisper, “Shh, don’t make a fuss! The pilot’s on our side, I’ve worked with him before and he’s solid, but he wants deniability and I didn’t let him see you. As far as he knows, you’re a huge sack of uncut gems. You’ll have to go back in the crate for a little while when we land but I didn’t want to just leave you in there the whole flight. I’ll help you sit up if you want but you need to be very careful. Robert is not exactly gifted when it comes to first aid, even though he knows enough. I can’t get you to a real doctor until we’re safer. ”

“Yes,” Hans managed, hoping this would convey that he did want to try sitting up. The two seats Hans had been draped over were not a pleasant as a hospital bed, but they were an improvement on a table. A jolt of even worse pain shot through his lower half as the man undid one of the two safety belts that had been rigged to hold him in place. 

“Your legs are broken.” 

“I recall that part, thanks,” Hans said through gritted teeth. At least they were in splints. Clumsy splints. “Where’s Frederick?”

“You mean Wilhelm Junior? I assume he’s still at home. I only worked with you people the one time and Robert didn’t tell me anything except instructions. My name’s Peter Keith.”

For a moment, Hans’ heart hurt more than his limbs, head, or face, but he couldn’t take that out on his only source of hope right now. He could now remember agreeing to some kind of escape plan that involved being sedated and handed over to someone the guard trusted. He couldn’t remember any of the particulars, and might not have fully understood them at the time. God, his mind was still so foggy. “Forgive me for not shaking hands, Keith.”

“Peter, please.” Peter grabbed a large white box from underneath one of the other seats and started rifling through it. “I have paracetamol, and I have morphine. You can have one or both.”

Hans sighed. He hated being sensible and responsible. “Morphine’s tempting, but…”

“I’m not an expert at dosage and addiction’s a bitch?” 

“That.”

“Gotcha.” Peter counted out two paracetamol tablets and produced a bottle of water. Hans could feed himself the pills but his hands weren’t steady enough to handle the water on his own. He drank almost the whole thing as Peter tipped it into his mouth. 

“Thank you. I...I think I need to lie back down again.”

“Okay.” Though still quiet, Peter shifted into full babbling as he shifted Hans as gently as possible. “I don’t know anything about kidnapping. Or consensual kidnapping. I guess those are called ‘rescues’. But I have a lot of experience with burglary and getting away with valuables when there might be someone on your tail...so...that’s something? I’ve laid low in parts of Switzerland before until the heat died down in West Germany and I could go back, so that’s where we’re going. Do you want aloe for your face, or, uh, any other parts? It’s fresh aloe, actually, I grow it myself to brighten up my room -”

“What’s wrong with my face?” 

“Nodon’ttouchit!” Peter laughed nervously. “Nothing that won’t get better soon. Definitely. You just need to hang on. You’ll see, uh, Frederick, as soon as Robert says the dickhead geezer isn’t going to be an issue. Robert’s promised updates every once in awhile."

“How long did you have to think about this before you agreed to it?” Hans asked, not as full of confidence as one would like to be in such a situation.

“Uh...about thirty seconds.”

“You two must be hoping for quite a large reward.”

Peter shrugged and settled onto the floor so they could be at eye level. “I mean, that’d be great. But…”

“But what?”

“Your left hand keeps clutching at the air. Would you like to hold mine? I’m sure your boy won’t mind.” Peter offered his hand. “Nurse-patient thing, that’s all.”

It helped a little. Hans took a few deep breaths, praying for the paracetamol to kick in sooner. “You didn’t finish your sentence.”

“I was going to say that people like us should look after each other. When the world doesn’t.” Peter then muttered something like _oh shit, what am I even doing_ , but Hans chose not to respond to that. 

****

_Now_

Over the decades, Hans had imagined thousands of reunion scenarios. Many of them had included Frederick simply showing up at the door. But only two or three of them had involved Frederick sobbing like this.

Those two or three times, Hans had resolved that he would not discourage the tears. There’d been more than enough of that. He returned Frederick’s embrace, and rubbed his back up and down. “It’s alright. It’s safe to do whatever you need to do.”

Frederick made a soft noise and buried his face in Hans’ shoulder, still weeping.

The gray-haired, stylishly dressed man who’d accompanied Frederick and Stephen tucked a pack of tissues in Frederick’s jacket pocket and asked something in English. Hans’ English had faded away to the point where he only knew it was something about what Frederick wanted to do next.

“I can, um, entertain the other guests. You two could go on the balcony,” Peter said in French. “Fresh air and some privacy.”

 _And not so much privacy that it might seem suspicious,_ Hans extrapolated. “Sounds good. Don’t wait up.”

Frederick’s breathing was closer to normal, though still shuddery, by the time they’d taken seats across from each other, a small glass-topped table between them. The weather was cooler than ideal for sitting out here, but not too bad. Hans wrapped the throw blanket draped over the chair around himself. Frederick was dressed for the cooler weather and Hans wasn't, and this was better than running inside to grab a sweater, therefore breaking the moment. He sat in silence to allow Frederick to blow his nose and more fully compose himself.

Then Frederick cleared his throat. “From the moment they were about to shoot you and I fainted until the moment I was informed right after dinner yesterday, I was certain you were dead.”

This was not surprising, but hearing it in such plain terms and thinking about all that implied was gut-wrenching. Hans had at least been able to hope that Frederick might be out there somewhere. He breathed, “Oh, you poor dear boy.”

“Haven’t been a boy for a long time,” Frederick mumbled.

“You’ll always be one to me.” He really did look a lot like his father, Hans thought, but he was pretty sure his father hadn’t had such laugh lines around the corner of his mouth and eyes. Also he had trouble meeting Hans’ gaze. His father had always tried to drill through every defensive layer of anyone he was talking to by sheer force of stare. Yet Hans wasn’t lying at all. He felt a familiar swell of protectiveness and softness towards the person in front of him, regardless of what lay between.

Frederick huffed the ghost of a laugh. “I’ve done things I’m not proud of. I didn’t even like doing them at the time, but I did them, and I know _he_ would have liked them and I am ashamed of that. I walked away from it eventually, but not after I realized how much I’d become everything I hated.”

“Do you want to talk -”

“Nein, non, no,” Frederick said, ticking the languages off on his fingers with a wry twist to his mouth. “You aren’t my therapist.”

“You have a therapist? Good. I hope it’s helped you." Peter had suggested a few times that Hans might have benefited from one as well, but the fear of potential consequences had overridden any possible agreement.

“I got one after I faked my death and went to America.”

Hans snorted, feeling mildly hysterical. “Fuck, that’s where we went wrong, we should have faked our deaths first.”

They both started laugh-crying so disproportionately loudly that Stephen knocked on the door and poked his head out. In French, he said, “Your partners are concerned. Need anything?”

“I could go for a glass of water,” Frederick said, also in French. “Tell them we’re just...feeling a lot of things.”

Hans wiped his eyes on his sleeve. He switched to German in case Stephen could hear. “How did you find us?”

Frederick jerked his thumb at Stephen’s retreating silhouette. “My partner, Francesco, has been concerned about my, uh, lack of closure.”

“What do you mean?”

With a sigh, Frederick took out his wallet and extracted a green card, supposedly showing his legal right to live in the United States as a foreigner. The name on the card was FREDERICK VON KATTE.

Oh no. Oh no no. Hans wanted to press it to his heart yet also wanted to chuck it off the building. (Not literally, he was sure good forgeries like that didn’t come cheap.) “You sad and beautiful idiot boy.”

“I will accept that one.” Frederick gave a small, self-deprecating smile and tucked the card away again. “I would really like to hear about you.”

“You didn’t finish explaining about how you found me.”

“Oh! So, he hired someone to find out what happened to your body. He must have thought being able to visit your grave would heal me somewhat. I didn’t know about this, and he didn’t know that the results would be like they turned out to be.”

Stephen returned with two glasses of water. “Hans, if you’re mad at me, know that Peter has already started grilling me. You can focus on the reunion aspect.”

“You’re a detective?” Hans asked, taking both waters and placing one in front of Frederick.

“Sometimes.” Stephen slipped away again.

Hans took a sip of water and watched Frederick’s hands rather than his face. They were trembling and curled tight around his glass. Hans began, “Robert Keith sent Peter a message over a secret radio channel at infrequent but regular intervals. He must have died or gone to prison before your father died.”

“Prison,” Frederick said. He took a sip. “Do go on.”

“He’s alive? Peter will be pleased.” Hans filed that away with so many other things. They needed to be orderly about this. “We pretended to be cousins, since we look too different for brothers and didn’t share a childhood we could easily talk about. I’ve been Hans Keith for a long time now, which is why your new name is particularly…”

“Remind me that it would be both difficult and a waste for me to attempt to drown myself in four hunded milliliters of liquid,” Frederick groaned.

Unable to contain himself, Hans reached out and ruffled his hair. “I am very flattered. Though I can see why your current love would find it concerning.”

This coaxed the first real smile out of Frederick. “I don’t deserve him.”

“I’d like to hear more about him, once I’m done telling you about me like you asked,” Hans said. He heard voices off in the distance, but a quick glance showed him it was probably on the street and they weren’t being watched. Force of habit. “I was badly injured when we first crossed the border, and he found me a doctor but I needed care for several weeks. He was a burglar beforehand, you know, not really a robber. Never held a gun. But he didn’t want the risks of keeping up a criminal life, and I myself was sick of it. So he started waiting tables at a restaurant that desperately wanted English-speaking staff to keep up with the tourists, enough not to look at his past too closely. He’s the manager there now.”

“I like how proud you sound,” Frederick said. “How did a (presumably) West German burglar speak good English, though? It wasn’t taught as much in schools as it is these days."

“His father had learned it during the war and tried to teach it to his children because he thought it’d be useful. Peter had a knack for it, but Robert didn’t. At the time Peter’s French was nearly nonexistent, but he picked it up over time.”

“And I’m sure you helped him with both.”

Hans shook his head. “I couldn’t bear to speak English. For the first few years, I had trouble even hearing it. Couldn’t watch American movies even with subtitles without Peter holding my hand. I eventually got a job as a night shift guard for a small shopping center. Once I was all healed up, I mean.” Hans had lost some of his agility when running, but a damaged formerly top-shelf bodyguard still made for a decent security guard. 

“Did that get boring?”

Hans leaned his left elbow on the table and put his chin in his hand. His right hand was flat on the tabletop, sometimes tapping to help him think. “I was very antisocial for a long time. I preferred the quiet. I’ve made it into management too, with more interaction, but there were a few years when Peter was the only person I’d speak more than five words to most days."

“I should have let you talk me out of the plan,” Fritz sighed, his eyes cast down.

“Is that what you’ve been telling yourself all this time? I tried to talk you out of it at first when I thought of it as us running away together like star-crossed lovers. That seemed profoundly irresponsible. Not that I was being the most professional by that point. It's not like I didn't know a bodyguard isn't supposed to have a romantic relationship with the person he's guarding." Hans lightly bit the inside of his cheek in anticipation of the next question. Grounding himself. 

“So what changed your mind?”

Hans took another sip. “There was an incident that shifted my perspective. You wanted time to practice the flute before bed, so you asked me to keep watch outside your room after I was supposed to have gone off-duty and alert you when your father got home from some late meetings. But he came home earlier than expected and you were in your en suite bathroom, so I had to run in, hide Princess in my jacket, and hide myself in your closet.”

“The flute I brought today is still called Princess, by the way, even if she's not the original.” Frederick had named his first instrument that because he claimed it was the only girl he ever wanted to kiss. Right now he sounded calm. His tone was a little too casual. “And yes, I remember. I was so scared that he’d search the closet that I ‘confessed’ to having a bunch of cassette tapes of music he didn’t approve of in my sock drawer. I figured if he wore himself out destroying them and beating me for keeping such things he wouldn’t bother going further that night.”

“You always had a very strategic mind,” Hans said with sad affection. “Anyway, I don’t want to dwell on it."

“Let’s not. My therapist and I have spent a whole hour on that one already." Which helped explain his current calm.

Hans grimaced. “The point is that I had to listen to the whole incident, and I realized it didn’t really matter if you and I fell out of love one day, what mattered was getting you out of there. My job was to keep you safe. And if you don’t want me to keep obsessing over that particular screwup on my part, you need to promise to stop obsessing over the plan going wrong.”

Frederick bit his lip and nodded. “I can’t promise it’ll work right away, though.”

“Trains don’t stop right away when you hit the brakes.”

“Mina said something like that.”

Hans raised his eyebrows. “Is she well? Does she know about this? I never truly got to know her, since she was away at school so much, but I got the impression that she didn’t like me.”

“It’s more like she didn’t trust you. She was concerned about our age difference and you being unprofessional by getting involved with me like that. I told her you were only twenty-three and everything was my idea, but she told me I was going to get one or both of us hurt and you shouldn’t be indulging me.” Frederick looked out to the distance as if his sister could be seen on one of the other rooftops. “She didn’t say, ‘I told you so,’ or anything like that, afterwards. She knew I was so close to breaking that I needed all her compassion. Which she gave. Yes, she’s well, and she knows. I helped her resettle fairly close to where I am now, for her and her daughter’s safety.”

“I’m very glad you had someone.”

“I had a few. Though I don’t think my heart had the courage to really love anyone new again, rather than simply crave their affection, until I set myself free.” After a melancholy pause, Frederick brightened and took out his phone. “Would you like to see some pictures of my niece? Her name is Sophia. I’ve trimmed them down to only interesting moments, I swear.”

Hans smiled and angled his chair so he could get a better look. “I would like nothing more.”

****

_Overlapping_

As soon as Peter was left alone with the remaining two men, he couldn’t stop himself from pointing and glaring at Stephen. “Were you the one who told them?”

Stephen handed the flute to the third man and adjusted the strap on the large messenger bag slung across his body. “If we want to include Francesco - this is Francesco - in the conversation, we need to speak English.”

Peter rolled his eyes and repeated the question in English. So far, all that had happened was Hans being reunited with his lost Frederick, which was very nice. Peter didn’t object to it in principle. But he did not like being made a fool of. He especially did not like being made a fool of in a way that involved Hans’ privacy being breached.

Francesco handled the flute like it was a delicate talisman as he put it back in its case. He didn't seem to know what to do with the case. “I’m sorry that this was not entirely above-board. I thought I was hiring someone to find a grave, not to find a living man. I didn’t ask for this elaborate scheme.”

“Would you have believed me if I’d simply sauntered over and told you what I was trying to do?” Stephen asked Peter.

“Let’s all sit down,” Peter said, because that was easier than outright admitting _no_. 

Francesco sat on the far end of the couch and glanced out the window that showed a portion of the balcony. He placed the flute case between himself and Stephen, and Stephen shot him a grateful look as he took a seat. 

Still standing, Peter gripped the back of his chair and shook his head a little. 

"What is it?" Stephen asked.

"You told us all sorts of stories about why you're uneasy about people sitting too close to you, and I just realized that they might not even have been -" Before Peter had time to say "real", the pair sitting outside erupted into loud crying, laughter, or both. 

"Hold that thought. I'll go check on them," Stephen said, and made for the back door. 

Peter, now feeling irritable in general, found that presumptuous. He'd only been looking after Hans for _decades_ , after all. However, it occurred to him that Hans hadn’t had time to check on the chicken and potatoes in the oven. He said to Francesco, “I need to make sure the food isn’t going to burn. Can I get you something to drink? We have still water, sparkling water, two kinds of beer because we’ve never managed to agree on that, and some very basic white wine left over from making a sauce the other day.”

“Any white wine is better than none, in my opinion, thank you.” Francesco’s look of polite anxiety went a long way towards Peter forgiving him for this situation. “Can I help with anything? Also, are these your glasses? They were between the cushions.”

“Yes, thank you!” Peter grabbed them and mentally granted Francesco a full pardon. “If you really want to do something while I’m away for a few moments, observe the paintings on the walls and tell Hans how nice they are at first opportunity.” Peter wouldn’t let Hans hide his work away, yet didn’t want to push him too hard to show them to other people, so they’d come to crowd out every other type of decoration in their home. Mostly landscapes and still lifes, though there was a portrait of Peter on the sofa having fallen asleep over a novel. It was the only way Hans could get Peter to stay put long enough to be painted. 

The kitchen wasn’t an entirely separate room, but the partial wall gave Peter a measure of space from his guest so that he could breathe and focus. Peter reduced the heat on the stove to warming rather than cooking, and after a peek inside the oven he grabbed the potholders to take the tray out. 

Stephen approached and said, “I’ve been assured they’re fine. Fritz asked for water. I’m happy to take two.”

Peter opened the cabinet where they kept the glasses but figured Stephen could probably manage the rest by himself. “Who?”

“Oh, sorry. Frederick. Everyone calls him Fritz these days.”

“Ah. Know him well, do you?”

“I never meant to upset you this much.” Stephen filled the glasses and took them away. 

When Peter returned to the sitting area with wine for Francesco and beer for himself, Francesco said, “I wasn’t trying to eavesdrop, but I heard. They aren’t always great at phrasing apologies in general.”

“Who?” _I sound like an owl._

“Francesco’s used to calling me by the English singular ‘they’ pronoun,” Stephen said, returning and retrieving his(?) messenger bag. “Peter, what if I start over? What if I tell you as much about me, the real me, as I know about you? Would that help?”

“It might,” Peter murmured.

Stephen gave a thumbs-up. “Where’s your bathroom?”

Not sure how that followed but too overwhelmed to ask, Peter pointed in the general direction. He made smalltalk with Francesco for awhile, both of them acting like amiable strangers who’d been randomly thrown together. Neither of them mentioned what was actually going on.

Then someone who resembled Stephen - but clearly was not - joined them. Had Peter seen this person on the street, he would not have been willing to bet on either “male” or “female”. He had no problem with all the variations on gender that had become more widely known since his own youth, it was just jarring to see the switch flipped like this. The stubbly beard was gone and the facial scar was gone. The meek, drab jacket and trousers were gone, though the black loafers remained the same. The outfit now consisted of a black shirt and an extra-long dark green cardigan, belted at the waist and almost dress-like but not quite, over skinny jeans. The eyeliner was vaguely rock-and-roll, though more subtle. And the hair had been given some volume and a hint of waves.

“I’m Chev. C-H-E-V, with the soft French-style ‘ch’ that I pronounce like ‘sh’ because I am a tiny bit pretentious like that.” Chev’s voice was softer and smoother than Stephen’s, though still hard to place as masculine or feminine, and the tone was more tentative than anything than Peter had ever heard from Stephen. “I’m actually non-binary, rather than a man. Or a woman. That’s why I go by ‘they’ when I’m, you know, me. And I’m sorry I didn’t meet you like this. I’m a complicated person and I didn’t want my own complicated-ness messing up an already complicated task. It wasn’t only about verifying your identities and finding out where you lived, but making sure you’d be receptive to a reunion and were safe for Fritz and Francesco to meet with. Also, I have loved ones to protect and the best way to do that is never being myself while I’m working. But I’m done with this particular job now. And I’d like to stay friends. If you’re up for that.”

“It depends whether you made up all the tragedies in your past so you could pull on our heartstrings,” Peter said. He could forgive all the other subterfuge, but would not stand for his and Hans’ traumas and tribulations being used for leverage. Peter and Hans had comforted Stephen. They’d shared painful things they’d been through so their young friend wouldn’t feel alone. If that had all been a ploy...

Chev settled on the couch again, holding their messenger bag in their lap. “I didn’t make up anything I told you, I just modified it in places. I really was homeless for a year, but it was because my parents didn’t accept my gender rather than sexuality. I really was abused by an older male lover. I really was bullied so much growing up that my parents made made me switch schools in the hope that would help. I understand if you don’t believe me. If I learned someone had been messing with _my_ partner’s head like this, they’d have received some sort of mild bodily harm by this point.”

Funny enough, it was that last sentence that soothed Peter’s irritation the most. It felt the most spontaneous and least calculated. “You never said you had a partner.”

“If you think back, you’ll realize that I never said I didn’t,” Chev replied, with a slight smile. “I am really looking forward to getting home.”

“I can confirm everything Chev has said as true, for what it’s worth,” Francesco added.

Peter held up a hand. “Right now, I want to know how the hell you found us.”

“The short answer is that I looked for people who had worked for Fritz’s father and were still alive, and that led me to your brother, who told me that Hans was alive and with you somewhere in Switzerland, and I went from there.” 

“You talked to Robert?” Peter hadn’t known if Robert was dead or alive for so long that it was almost like being told that Chev could speak to ghosts. Maybe this was a fraction of how Hans felt right now.

Chev extracted a folded piece of paper from one of the outer pockets of their bag. “I got info on how you can write, call, or visit him. He’s got less than five years left in his sentence.”

“Oh my God.” Peter took the paper and clenched it tightly in one hand like it might evaporate otherwise. “You’re not done, though. ‘I went from there’ is a very general statement.”

“I used an image recognition program with both of you, but Hans has made himself so scarce that I ended up finding him through you instead. Fed it a mugshot of you at age twenty and it combed the Internet. The patterns on someone’s irises....” Chev gestured at their eyes, “is as unique as a fingerprint.”

Peter adjusted his glasses and laughed. “I don’t think you really needed a fancy program to find my eyes. Is that the whole story?”

“It’s the whole story that doesn’t involve a lot of technical details,” Chev said.

****

_Seven weeks earlier_

“Are you actually gonna drink half the minibar?” Ada asked Chev through the video chat link. It was nice of her to keep Chev company while Chev experimented with one of the tiny bottles of spirits. 

“No, I’m not going to get blackout drunk on overpriced stuff when I’ve got to plan what we’re going to do next. ‘Cause I need your help, Countess. This was already a very sentimental job, and now it looks like I’m going to be bringing long-lost tragic lovers together and confusing the hell out of their current significant others. If Katte has one. We should still look for Keith, because even if they’ve parted ways he’ll know things.” Chev took a few bites of their sandwich and gulped down some water in order to balance out the alcohol. 

Ada crunched through a handful of shelled edamame, daintily avoiding any of them falling on her oversized tee that said “Sudo make me a sandwich” (apparently a Linux joke) or her beautiful blue silk dressing gown covered in pink roses. She’d been trying to cut down on the classic unhealthy hacker snacks after she realized how many bags of Doritos she’d gone through while trying to get into a single government database.“Think of how much more exciting it is now, though! It’s so sweet.”

“You know what would be sweet? Me getting on a flight home and getting to spend my anniversary with my husband for once. He’s under the impression that I’m almost done with this assignment.” Chev theatrically flopped onto the carpet. “And I gotta tell Francesco about this. And Mr. 15. Not that I’ll tell Mr. 15 the particulars. He only needs to know my new estimated completion time.”

“I’d rather not have to negotiate with him. He doesn’t understand how I do my thing.” 

Chev doubted Mr. 15 understood much of anything of value, but he handled enough of the boring admin that his organization was worth sticking with for now. “I never tell anyone about you helping me unless you ask me to. Your privacy is important.”

“I appreciate that. I’ll give you a big discount because of how romantic a turn this has taken. I have powerful and melodramatic poet genes. It shouldn’t be too much work on my end, either. If you can find me any good verified photos of them, the newest version of my algorithm will find all the probable matches that aren’t, like, Dark Web in less than a day. If you want the Dark Web, I’ll need a few days and more personal involvement.”

“I hope it won’t come to that.” Chev thought about sleeping on the floor, which was pretty comfortable in their exhausted state, but they really needed to call Pierre right after this. Pierre would be alarmed to see Chev lying on the floor. “If we find Katte, I should get to know him gradually to avoid spooking him. I’ll need to find out where he lives, if he’d want to see Fritz, if Fritz would be in any special danger, and I’m probably going to have to be the one to handle whatever drama happens as a result. The neutral go-between. Dammit.”

“There, there,” Ada said, already typing commands in another window, probably. “You get to be the hero this time. Focus on that.”

“Sometimes I think I should have gone to law school like I planned.” This was going to be such a headache. But not going through with it would have made Chev a monster. Now the stakes went far beyond a paycheck and a high customer satisfaction rating. Chev hoped it would all work out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did not make up the flute name. Even more adorably, real Wilhelmina named her lute Prince so the brother and sister could have duets between equals. Thanks to mildred_of_midgard for another great fact, and of course so much support!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Contains a mild spoiler for "Three Days Already", the first fic in this series.
> 
> CW: dysphoria, memories of cissexism.

_The previous year_

During the warmer seasons, on the two weekends per month that Fritz spent at home - rather than driving up to Mina's on Friday night and taking Sophia on some age-appropriate excursion the next day - Francesco liked taking him to a nearby farmers' market. Now, there was a particular stall which was Francesco’s only reliable source of tomatoes suitable for certain family recipes, but it was mainly a matter of atmosphere. Fritz hadn't spent enough of his life innocently ambling through cheerful crowds. It was satisfying to address the deficit. 

Today Francesco had filled up two canvas totes with produce, baked goods, and a jar of strawberry rhubarb jam, and had engaged in pleasant conversations with all the vendors. Fritz had been quieter than usual, simply responding to Francesco’s questions and carrying one of the totes for him.

“Someone’s been watching us,” Fritz muttered while Francesco was pondering whether to buy another box or two of Girl Scout cookies. 

Francesco looked. “That’s just one of my students surprised to see his professor in the wild, it’s okay.”

“Oh.” He didn’t relax right away, though, so Francesco tried to reassure him by subtly lacing their hands together for a quick squeeze. But that made Fritz flinch. Oh dear.

Asking Fritz about his mental state could be tricky and was best done in private, so Francesco waited until they were having lunch on the outdoor table in their backyard two hours later. Fritz was eating very slowly while watching Mimi destroy a large stick instead of playing fetch with it like a normal dog. It was better than when she’d chewed up a student paper that Francesco was supposed to be marking, on the topic of religious ideology coming into conflict with medical research and what to do about it. Fortunately Francesco always had students send digital copies to his Turnitin account to check for plagiarism, so he printed out a new copy to mark, and the student found the evidence photo hilarious afterwards. 

“Did you sleep last night?” Francesco asked. Fritz was not good at sleeping, though on a given night it could be from stubborn attempts to defy biology as much as it could be for mental health reasons. 

Fritz finished chewing and swallowing before answering, “I did.”

Trying to keep his tone light, Francesco continued, “I know you didn’t have any serious nightmares, because you didn’t wake me up. I don’t want to harass you, all I want is to make sure that I didn’t do anything upsetting earlier. Especially when your comfort level about being openly affectionate in public varies. I should have -”

“Stop. It’s not your fault. And I had a good dream, actually.” Fritz put his fork down and folded his arms, making eye contact. Not enough people had ever told Fritz what lovely eyes he had. Not that this was an ideal moment. He set his words down like he was laying out a long line of dominoes that he must not knock over until he was finished. “That was the unsettling part. It’s nothing you did per se. It was a sunny day, like today, in the dream. Walking outdoors in a happy crowd, like today, nobody taking any special notice of me. I felt safe and content. When you took my hand, I didn’t react the way I did because it was unwelcome, it’s not like you were making a big show. I felt...shit, I’m not sure how to put this in a helpful way.”

“Maybe don’t try to put it in a helpful way.” He nudged his foot against Fritz’s under the table. _I’m here now, you’re here now, and we can sort out the rest._

Fritz sighed. “I felt guilty about not being happier about such a similar scene in real life.”

Francesco waited, but Fritz didn’t elaborate, and his gaze started to wander towards Mimi (who was now rolling over the shreds of bark and branch). After a moment’s thought, Francesco said gently, “It wasn’t me with you. In your dream.”

“Do you think we should get her more chew toys?” Fritz said.

“Not a bad idea. But Fritz. Fritz. Fritz? _Frederick._ ”

Fritz’s eyes were back on Francesco, but his pupils were blown wider than a moment ago. “Sorry.”

“There’s no need to apologize. We lived long, complex lives before meeting each other. I have plenty of dreams about partners from long ago, good and bad, though I know it’s not the same for me as it is for you. What I mean is that we can’t count on our minds to leave things in the past. The morning was still nice, though, right?”

“Right.” Fritz reached over and placed his right hand over Francesco’s idle left hand. “You’re too good for me.”

Francesco winked. “I will remind you of that next time we get into a little tiff. Speaking of which, you promised to elaborate on a funny altercation you witnessed between two of the other animal shelter volunteers during your shift on Friday.”

****

_Now_

Peter waved off all offers of help setting the table for lunch. “I need a minute of privacy. Productive privacy. I’m not a fan of sulking. I’m not seriously angry anymore, but I need a minute of not talking to very confusing people.”

“How about I go fetch the other two?” Francesco asked. “Chev can take a turn admiring Hans’ paintings.”

“Good idea. Especially compliment the perspective. He’s so insecure about that.” Peter took a big gulp of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and went to the kitchen.

“How are you holding up?” Chev asked, getting up to study one of the still lifes in earnest. It depicted an unusual assortment: a bouquet of white lilies, a potted aloe plant, and a small velvet bag with uncut rubies and sapphires spilling from it. Francesco had heard of an old superstition that wearing sapphires could protect the bearer from eye problems as well as being protective in general, and also the white lilies seemed funereal, but he hadn’t thought of any other possible symbolism yet.

“Strictly between us, may I say something horribly petty and catty?”

Chev raised an eyebrow. “Oh, please, I’m friends with Reinette Poisson. Try me.”

Reinette had always been kind to Francesco in their limited interactions. However, what scraps he knew of how she handled any opposition within her position as Mr. 15’s second-in-command made it easy for Francesco to grasp Chev’s meaning. Francesco’s shame at what he was about to say eased to a level bearable enough for him to get the words out. “I’m not talking about scars, to be clear. I’m not that awful. But a childish part of my mind won’t stop commenting that Fritz led me to believe that Hans was a lot more handsome than this, even allowing for wear and tear.”

For the first time in their acquaintance, Chev gave Francesco a spontaneous and enthusiastic hug. “You’re such a ridiculously decent human being, if that’s what got you in a tizzy like that.”

“Excuse me?” Francesco hugged back, though, needy for someone to reassure _him_ for once in a way he hadn’t realized. 

“In general, you give me hope for Pierre retaining his adorableness for the next thirty years and more.” Chev patted his shoulder and released him. “That was a normal thought for a stressed-out man who is very much in love and who has been playing second fiddle to a memory of a tragic lost lover for a very long time. You didn’t have to do this at all. You didn’t have to see this through. And now here you are trying to see it through with grace and manners. If Fritz doesn’t give you some kind of Partner of the Decade trophy, I’ll yell at him and make you one myself. With flowers and doves on it. I’m decent at decoupage.”

“Thank you.” Francesco felt a little calmer as he set off on his task.

As Francesco opened the back door, he could hear Fritz and Hans talking in what sounded like mostly-German with some French dropped in here and there, presumably when the French word would sound nicer or more apropos. Fritz liked to hold forth about how French, while fussy grammatically in its own way, was so much more pleasant to his ear than his native language. _Tell me, would you rather take your coffee ‘avec sucre’ or ‘mit slag’?_

They fell silent when Francesco stepped out onto the balcony. “Lunch is almost ready.”

“Thank you, my dear,” Fritz said, pocketing his phone and getting to his feet.

Hans looked blank, and Francesco realized that they’d never properly greeted each other earlier. He stepped closer and tentatively held out a hand to shake. “Oh, I’m sorry, I’m, uh, Francesco Algarotti. I’ve heard a lot about you.”

With a cringe, Hans said slowly, “Um. No more English.”

Fritz took Francesco’s outstretched hand - not to shake but to squeeze - and put his other hand on Hans’ shoulder. “I know I said he could speak English, but he’s fallen, um, he’s fallen out of practice in the intervening time. Between Peter and me I’m sure we can all muddle through. And Chev, too. _Ach_ , I need to explain about Chev’s Chev-ness. I’ll join you inside in a moment.”

 _Oh no, I’ve embarrassed Hans,_ Francesco thought miserably, even though he knew it wasn’t his fault. He closed the door behind him. Peter had placed the food on the table by now and was setting out plates and cutlery. Chev was studying the paintings like they thought the brushstrokes might contain secret codes. Francesco went to use the bathroom and wash his hands and face. Compose himself.

The food was good. It was conveyed to Francesco that Hans was responsible for the brunt of the cooking. Fritz sat next to Francesco and facing Hans, while Peter sat next to Hans and facing Francesco. Chev was perpendicular to Francesco and Peter, at the foot of the table, facing the chair on which Hans had jokingly placed Fritz’s flute case. Princesses should sit at the head of a table, after all. 

If Francesco hadn’t been slightly jet-lagged and at his upper limit of emotional strain, he probably would have tried harder to communicate with Hans directly. Italian and French, though long estranged, were still part of the same extended family. But he took the easy way out and let the other three run interference. It was funny when Chev and Peter got into an argument about the best way to translate a phrase. Fine, there was also some security in not having to face Hans head-on. It was strange enough to see him sitting there, the ghost that had always followed one step behind Fritz made flesh.

Everything was fine for awhile: people getting to know each other’s new selves or real selves, learning things they had in common and stumbling on surprises. It took several minutes for Hans to stop expressing how distressed he was that Fritz had been in a sham marriage to a woman for many years. (Peter instantly accepted this as part of Wilhelm Senior’s record of terrible fathering.) Everyone steered clear of discussing crimes that those present had committed, even though Chev had briefed Francesco earlier that neither Hans nor Peter had committed the sorts of violent crimes that would not have exceeded the statute of limitations after thirty-odd years. Fritz didn’t like talking about his old life anyway, except for some of the legitimate artistic and scientific projects he’d sponsored, and a harmless anecdote about Friedrich von Steuben. 

Then Hans abruptly put down his spoon and asked Chev something about their face in a soft, hurt voice. This escalated into a sharp, heated argument in which Hans sounded increasingly distraught and Chev increasingly uncomfortable. Nobody paid attention to Francesco and he was afraid to ask anyone what was going on. Then, with a hissed “fuck it” in English, Chev got out of their seat and went to Hans’ side to show him their right wrist. They held it close to his face and traced a line all the way around it while explaining something, and Hans traced it too. Then they hugged, and Chev wasn’t crying, but their face was red. Peter got up to hug both of them in turn. 

This released Fritz from the spell he’d been under, and he put a hand on Francesco’s leg and leaned towards him to summarize. “Hans was fine with Chev coming out to him and I think he’s happy enough to see me again that he forgave the deception faster than Peter did. But a moment ago he noticed that ‘Stephen’ had a scar on his face that Chev doesn’t, and he felt like Chev had been using the echo of Hans’ own facial scars as emotional leverage. I won’t say everything Chev said, but they finally broke down and said that they got a scar on their wrist from a horrific experience that I am familiar with, but I’ve been previously asked not to tell you about. And that they had the tattoo colored in by a tattoo artist so that it wouldn’t sabotage their disguises, but it’s still possible to see and feel it up close. They gave more detail about that event than even I knew before now, and said yes, they did manipulate Hans to a certain degree, but only by making that aspect of their vulnerability more obvious than it generally is. Apparently the backstory they gave for the fake scar has a lot of similarities to the backstory of the real one. Also they apologized and said their modus operandi is to be a heartless bastard in general, and in this case they regret it.”

“I think it’s time for cake,” Peter said loudly. Chev was as stripped of confidence and posturing as Francesco had ever seen them, clinging to Peter like doing so could turn him into Pierre. Well, through more than just literal etymology. Peter let them hang onto him for a bit longer while Hans went to fetch the cake.

The atmosphere was more subdued after that. After some thought, Francesco announced, “I have to go over a student’s senior thesis back at the hotel before tonight, and I think we could all use some rest. The three of us will be here one more full day. I’ve seen the forecast will be bright and not too cold. Is there a nice park near here where we could go for a walk, maybe get lunch after? Our treat.”

“I’ll have to spend a lot of tomorrow tying up loose ends, but I should be able to join in for a bit if you want me,” Chev said, first in English, then in French. Usually Chev was temperate about sweets, but they’d vacuumed up their slice of cake in two bites and was nibbling the tines of their fork. 

Hans said something conciliatory and Chev nodded, biting their lip. It was usually easy to forget how young Chev was, not even born yet when Fritz and Hans had last seen each other.

Fritz and Hans hugged each other for a long time before departure, and for a moment Francesco had (yet another) vision of Fritz turning around and telling Francesco that he wasn’t going to leave. But it didn’t happen, and Fritz kissed Francesco lightly on the lips before opening the car door for him. 

As Chev drove, Fritz said, “I’m going to give you a bonus for all this, Mx. d’Eon, no arguments. Whatever Francesco’s paying Mr. 15 to pay you, you deserve more than that. No need to tell your boss.”

“No need to twist my arm,” Chev said, then laughed, with a slight hint of something bittersweet. “Seriously, they’ve been my favorite pair to get to know on an assignment. I’ll miss them.”

“That’s part of why you deserve a bonus,” Fritz said. He turned to Francesco. “And _you_ deserve to do absolutely anything you want tonight. I know none of this was easy for you.”

“It’s easy to be with you when you’re really here,” Francesco said, leaning against him. “That’s what I told Chev this was all about. Please hold hands with Hans and walk in the sun tomorrow.”

Fritz went still. “Excuse me?”

“We dream of random things, or what we’re afraid of, or what we want that never was. I don’t want you to need that anymore.” Francesco wasn’t sure he was making sense. He was very tired now, and Fritz was warm through the layers of clothing between them. “Check with Peter first, obviously.”

****

_Some years before Chev was born_

As a career thief who thought ahead, Peter had a secret bank account with a hoard of emergency funds in case he ever needed to flee the country. He could access those funds in Zürich, so that was where he took Hans. He had also stuffed some easily-fenced valuables into his suitcase in the short time he’d been able to devote to preparation. He hoped these two resources would be enough until he could find work that wouldn’t attract either police or criminal underworld notice. 

However, he had to pay the pilot for their safe passage. Then there were the typical steep fees of the kind of doctor who would patch up dire injuries without asking any awkward questions. And even rudimentary fake identification and/or legal-presence-confirming papers didn’t come cheap. (Much later, the formation of the EU made their presence less problematic, but back then the Berlin Wall was casting a shadow over anyone with a German accent, even on this neutral ground. At least they were obviously too young to have had any involvement in the War.) Then there was food, shelter, and some more clothes for Hans, who only had what was on his back. They had to be careful and make sure the remaining money didn’t run out before more came in. 

The apartment they were able to afford only had one bed and no sofa. Peter insisted on sleeping on the floor, but on the third night, Hans said, “This is stupid. Hearing you toss and turn isn’t restful for me, and I trust you to keep your hands to yourself.”

Peter did, indeed, keep his hands to himself, and he had to be careful not to jostle Hans’ healing bones. It was nice having someone there, though, and he tried to be good company whenever he was home. Poor Hans was pretty much trapped for months until he was physically strong enough to get around and mentally strong enough to face the world. 

“You told me why you’re doing this, but I think there has to be more than that,” Hans said once during his cooped-up phase, while sketching the rooftops he could see from the window. He’d been using only pens and cheap salvaged paper, and Peter planned to surprise him with a basic watercolor set after his next payday. He hadn’t had enough left in the budget after getting Hans his new crutches, now that Hans could put a small amount of weight on his feet. The crutches were worth it for him to no longer need help getting around the room, especially to be able to reach the toilet by himself when Peter wasn’t here. But another source of solace was important too. He read the books Peter got from the library too damn fast.

Peter was listening to commentary on a World Cup match on the little radio he’d brought from his old life, mainly to pick up Robert’s secret messages but also to use like any other radio. They’d both like a TV at some point, but it was lower priority, and there were other places Peter could watch matches he truly cared about. Fortunately Hans had made his loaded statement during a commercial break. Peter turned the volume way down and said, “Fine, I admit that besides hope of reward and my not liking the idea of you getting killed, I’m also avoiding a police investigation. Don’t worry, they don’t know my name or face, but there’s a reward out for information and I was getting nervous.”

“I’m sure Frederick will be happy to protect you,” Hans said quietly, turning his gaze to the horizon again. “Do you have anyone waiting for you, other than your brother?”

“There’s not really anyone else who gives a shit about me,” Peter said, shrugging. He turned the radio up again...only for a ballpoint pen to hit him right on the temple. “Ow, what was that for?”

Hans waggled his paper at him. “I give a shit about you, okay? I’ll start showing it better once I can actually do things, even if it’s just domestic things.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Peter tossed the pen back, and Hans caught it in midair with a small smile. 

Peter didn’t fall in love for another year and a half or so, and then spent an equal amount of time afterwards continuing to keep his hands (and heart) to himself because the situation was so fraught and unfair. It wasn't okay to do anything until Hans made the first move. But Peter marked this moment as the first time he really thought of Hans as a person, rather than a complex undertaking in the shape of a person.

****  
_A few minutes after Chev left_

Hans gave Peter a lengthy, firm kiss and said, "I am going to do all the cleanup and you are going to do something relaxing. I will then join in. If you want."

"Is that an order?" Peter asked, amused. He was already feeling more relaxed now that it was just the two of them again and that Hans seemed okay. 

"I'll be pleased." Hans adjusted Peter's glasses, which were slightly askew from the kiss. 

Peter smirked. "Then it's an order." 

When they'd been deciding on where to live after their finances let them upgrade, the size and depth of this bathtub had been a large check in the "pro" column. Peter decided to go wild and added salts AND oils AND bubbles. Any conception of maturity or masculinity that opposed him having a bath a Roman senator might envy was pointless, in Peter's opinion. 

Hans arrived and nonchalantly started undressing. "You look like you're steeping in melting candy."

"Not sweet enough yet. It's missing an ingredient." Peter folded himself up so the tub could fit two. It took some maneuvering, but they ended up nestled together with Peter leaning back against Hans’ chest. 

“Want me to wash your hair?”

Peter hummed. “Later. I just want to sit for a moment. This would be perfect if the tub had jets. Back before I met you, I once broke into a big fancy house that had an actual indoor jacuzzi, and I was tempted…”

“You’ve told me that story at least sixteen times," Hans teased.

“Senility is coming for both of us. Hand me a loofah.”

Hans handed him both the loofah - a real one made from a sponge gourd, not an inferior plastic puff - and the lavender-rosemary body wash. “How are you feeling now?”

“I’m trying not to think too hard about it. I’m glad we always thought it was a possibility that he’d suddenly show up one day, however slim.” Peter squeezed some of the body wash onto the loofah and began to scrub foamily. He liked the rough texture against his skin. “I’m not worried you’ll run off with him or compare me unfavorably. I’m mainly concerned about how you’re taking the shock. And my feelings about Chev are all over the place. Stephen was becoming something like a _son_ to us, you know? Then he was _gone_ , never existed. But when the person who played us, who tricked us, was upset, I couldn’t help but care about him - excuse me, them - too. Even if Fre - uh, Fritz hadn’t confirmed their story, their little breakdown was very raw.”

“I know what you mean. I’m glad you ended up being kind to them.” Hans kissed the side of his neck, a surefire way to melt Peter even further. “After a certain point, I knew my Frederick would never be my Frederick anymore. At the same time, I think a small, silly part of me was holding out for an eighteen-year-old boy to magically step out of a hole in midair, and I think I’m relieved that part of me has been quieted.”

“He looks too much like his father,” Peter said darkly. Despite Hans having already said so, Peter had been startled at lunch once he’d laid eyes on him with his glasses on. 

“He’s got a softer face and his body language doesn’t dominate the whole room,” Hans said. “It was strange talking to him, sure. It made me think about how different I am now, too, and...and truly see that we’ve grown into men who wouldn’t fit together. But I liked the man I met today, and wish him well. Basically, I suppose I feel somewhat settled?”

Hearing that, the last bit of deep frost in the soil of Peter’s heart started to thaw. “I’m very happy to hear it was good for you overall. It must have been harder for those two. Obviously Fritz has mourned you for much longer than anyone needs to mourn anybody, much less someone who isn’t dead. And Francesco’s situation reminds me of a bit in _Maus_ , where the living son had a brother he’s never met because the elder brother died in the Holocaust, and he’s always jealous of the dead son for being perfect in his parents’ eyes.”

“Are you trying to tell me I’m not perfect?” Hans huffed jokingly.

Peter twisted around to look at him, and smiled. “I never wanted perfect. I just wanted mine.”

****

After dropping Fritz and Francesco off at their hotel, Chev popped back to their rented apartment to change, then went to the gym they’d been using five days a week for the past seven weeks. They pushed themself as hard as they safely could for two hours. Upon returning “home”, they had the horrible realization that they (1) needed to take a shower, but (2) they’d just been hit by a wave of the worst dysphoria they’d had in months, with nobody here to distract them. 

Pierre had recorded some audio files for this situation. Chev started the playlist and propped their phone up on the bathroom sink. They took a few deep breaths and started to take off their clothes.

_I love every part of your body, Chevy. It’s all wonderful. It doesn’t need to be like anybody else’s..._

Sometimes vague affirmations were enough, but Chev let it continue to the next track, which went into the deeper insecurities. Only then could they take their pants off. There were days when Chev wished they didn’t have a penis. There were days when they wished it was an average size. There were days when they wished it was _smaller_ , because the only reason it was as much as three inches long was because their parents had insisted on putting them through medically unnecessary surgery as a child, because God forbid your kid be ambiguous down there, right? And there were moments where they didn’t know what they wanted at all, they just didn’t want to care about it. 

They stepped into the shower and listed to the voice telling them how much he loved Chev’s breasts and how Chev had chosen the perfect size for them. The argument that had sparked Chev running away from home in the first place was eighteen-year-old Chev’s decision to have their breasts reduced to be less unwieldy and allow for more androgyny, not completely removed like their family wanted. Well, they’d wanted them to get rid of either the “girl parts” or the “boy parts”, and were upset that they’d chosen to keep both and customize them on their own terms. Chev traced the chest tattoo of sweet pea flowers they’d gotten in lieu of a wedding ring. (One of their mentors had said: “A tan line on your ring finger is a target on the back of your spouse.”) The motion eased the pain inside their chest a little.

They weren’t sorry to have come clean to Peter and Hans today, but in some ways it had been nice to be Stephen around them. Simple. So much less baggage.

On the other hand, it was a lot easier for Chev to be gentle with themself, to be voluntarily soft and vulnerable, when embracing the feminine. So when they got out of the shower they put on floral pajamas with lace trim, with a silky violet dressing gown over it. They put mousse in their hair and put it up in curlers. They made hot cocoa with good Swiss chocolate and curled up in an armchair with their laptop on the coffee table, hugging their plush parrotfish.

_ada u up_

_Oh no, no punctuation - are you bleeding to death?_

Chev snorted. _I’m just stressed out. Can we do a purely audio call?_

Ada sounded concerned once they’d started talking. “Are you sure I’m the person you want to be talking to?”

“Sometimes it’s better to talk to someone who’s not going to be so intensely invested, and you know plenty of my secrets anyway. Besides, Friedrich’s taking Pierre to a play party this evening - your evening, you know what I mean - and Pierre doesn’t need to be worrying about me over this.”

“Do you want to talk about what happened?”

“Got triggered about The Incident, which set off a delayed dysphoria reaction.” They fought the urge to rub their scar raw. That’s how they got it in the first place, straining against a handcuff for days like a desperate dog on a choke chain, pulling and pulling and pulling and pulling and -

“Chev, would you like me to share documents related to your ex being denied parole? At least that’s what my translation program says the documents are about. They’re all in French. I just do periodic searches for his name.”

“No, and you’re terrifying and should not have been able to get your hands on those.” Chev couldn’t help but smile a fraction, though, and hoped it showed in their tone.

It must have, because she sounded only mildly apologetic. “I’m a digital-age avatar of wise goddess Athena, and you’re one of my devotees. I gotta make sure you’re okay.”

They cut through the lump in their throat with a quick pun. “I’ll sacrifice a RAM for you.”

“Niiiiiiice. Imagine a high-five.” Ada cleared their throat. “Not to get off-topic, but I’m already done wiping Fritz off airport video footage like you asked. I wish he could have worn sunglasses in the airport without looking suspicious. Sunglasses don’t always keep you from being recognized, but they prevent iris pattern matching, which would indisputably prove he’s still alive from photos alone.”

Chev took a thoughtful sip of their cocoa. Nobody in the U.S. cared about "Frederick the Great", but he still had some enemies on the Continent. It was important to make sure he stayed under the radar here. “He’s going for a walk in a public park tomorrow, but it’ll be sunny enough that he can wear shades without it being odd. And thank you, Countess, and/or Goddess.”

“Teach me how to do winged eyeliner and I won’t charge you extra.”

“Deal. Now tell me how you've been, please. Lots of details."

****

“We settled it ages ago." Peter winked. “My specific words were, ‘If Frederick shows up, I’m okay with you doing anything with him that is legal to do in a public place as long as I’m there too.’”

Fritz probably looked gobsmacked, but it was hard to be certain behind those mirrored aviator sunglasses and under the newsboy cap. Hans approved of the headwear. It was more genteel and less obvious than a baseball cap. “Wait, anything?"

"Francesco just said he's fine with those terms," Peter translated. 

“Let’s start off simple,” Hans said softly, holding out his hand. Fritz wound his fingers around his, firmly intertwined but loose enough of a grip that it didn't feel like outright clinging. Not like the way he had latched onto Hans when they first laid eyes on each other yesterday.

Francesco and Peter had an exchange that Hans wouldn’t have followed even if it had been in one of his languages. He barely noticed when Chev, who was presenting as a very pretty young lady in a short velvet skirt and knee boots today, daintily took Francesco’s arm.

“Peter politely declined Francesco’s offer to hold hands as well, so Chev gave Francesco’s desire for friendly touch another outlet.” Fritz said, letting Hans take the lead down the path. “Francesco’s not like us. He’s always been rich in receiving and giving affection from pretty much everyone he meets. Though he says if he’d met me back in my ‘big boss’ days he’d have been too intimidated to stay around me long."

Hans hoped his hand wouldn’t sweat like some teenager’s. “I think we are like Chev in that all of us are many people. Though unlike Chev, I have never been more than one or two men at a time.”

“Including the time when you were the man who loved me and died for me,” Fritz murmured.

Hans glanced back and saw that the others weren’t far, but were giving them a decent amount of space. It was too chilly this morning for there to be many families running around. Wherever the sun touched, though, it was as close to spring as Hans needed. He traced Fritz’s knuckles with his thumb. "I do like you. This you, what I’ve seen of it. It’s not all nostalgia.”

“Good. I’d like to visit again, if I can. I have to be careful about attracting attention. I certainly want to keep in touch.” Fritz stepped over a puddle and steered Hans around it. “You don’t need to live in fear now that you know for sure that my father isn’t after you, or anyone on his behalf. My successor has never even heard of you or Peter. As for the police, after more than thirty years, a bit of breaking and entering and theft on Peter’s part and a dash assault and obstruction of justice on your part can’t be prosecuted any longer.”

“Peter and I talked about it, yeah,” Hans said.

They walked in silence for a while, listening to the birds. Then Fritz said, “You know, immediately after I left Germany for the last time, I chose a flight that landed in Heathrow. Even though London wasn't my final destination.”

Hans wasn’t sure whether to say “aw”, sigh, hug him, or call Fritz a beautiful idiot boy again for picking the same airport the two of them had tried and failed to get to. So he merely said, “Oh?”

“I ordered two beers and clinked them. I told your ghost that I had finally made it. I was mistaken. I think I might have now, though. The way I feel now makes me understand the difficulties astronauts had when learning to walk on the Moon. They didn’t know what to do without the customary weight that had always been upon them.” Fritz stopped right in a bright patch of day.

Hans looked back again and caught Peter’s attention. He raised his eyebrows in couple telepathy, and Peter raised his too, and nodded. Fritz had gotten them their celebratory drink. It was up to Hans to check off the remaining box. “One big step for a man, one short leap to never was?”

Some kisses were meant to begin something. This was not one of those. It was meant to conclude, to settle. It was meant to put a stamp on a letter that should have been sent long ago. It was also a kiss that said, _You’ve mourned me too long. Here’s proof I survived - and so did you._


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I ended up splitting this chapter, so you have another one to look forward to after this. Eventually.

After a good lunch, Chev excused themself to go settle some more business, and Francesco requested that the remaining quartet go on an excursion to pick up a few gifts. It would be nice to have presents for Sophia and Mina, of course, and Francesco felt he owed it to Pierre to get him a high-quality watch to symbolize the time he’d given up with his spouse while Chev worked for Francesco. Also, Francesco was going to be meeting up with his old friend Voltaire at a convention next month, so he wanted to get something for him, too.

“Hans is familiar with Voltaire’s writing and startled that we know him personally,” Fritz translated for Francesco as they sat in the back of Hans’ car. Peter usually took public transport to work. The car was at least twenty years old but was in excellent condition, and as carefully as Hans drove, it was easy to see why it had lasted so long. 

Peter twisted around in his seat. “Also, Fritz just told us that he had a crush on the man and was disappointed. But it turned out okay, since Fritz met you through him.”

Francesco gave Fritz a pat on the thigh. “I met Voltaire back when I was a newly minted Ph.D bouncing around Europe trying to find someone, anyone, who would give me a job I found agreeable. He liked a paper I’d had published about Newton’s experimental methods and invited me for a drink. A platonic drink, I mean. With him and his girlfriend Emilie.” He decided not to mention the part where, after a few months of friendship, they’d invited him to join them in bed on a handful of occasions. Fritz didn’t exactly get jealous when reminded about it, more like he got pouty. Also, it would have been an odd thing to bring up in casual conversation. 

It wasn’t entirely clear to Francesco what happened next. There was a reckless rider on a small scooter who cut across the road in front of them, and Hans did something equally abrupt with the steering wheel and brakes to avoid hitting him, and everything felt very fast and yet achingly slow at the same time. 

Physically, everyone was fine, but Francesco saw that Fritz’s posture had gone stiff and his eyes had gone dark in a way that didn’t say: “I’ve had a little fright that I’m not back down from yet, give me a moment.” More like: “Because I’m frightened, here’s a glimpse into what made people fear _me_.” Then Fritz started berating Hans. Francesco didn’t know what he was saying, but his tone was vicious and Peter looked equal parts flabbergasted and angry. Hans himself squared his shoulders and silently pulled them into the first spot of legal street parking available. Then he turned around, face as pale as Peter’s had reddened, and opened his mouth to retort. 

Francesco held up his hands and used his firmest tone that still fell in the realm of courteous. “Everyone but Fritz needs to get out of the car. Now.”

The other couple protested, but Fritz briefly, oh-so briefly, shot Francesco a look of gratitude before his walls slammed down again. 

Before leaving, Francesco took off his scarf and placed it next to Fritz. This was not the time to touch or speak to him if avoidable. But sometimes it helped Fritz to have something soft in reach, something that was irrefutable proof that whatever turmoil or flashback he was going through wasn’t real. Everything that tormented Fritz predated Francesco’s arrival in his life.

“Nobody talks to my partner that way, I don’t care why, especially when he didn’t even do anything wrong,” Peter hissed as they stood on the sidewalk. Hans had both hands curled around Peter’s upper right arm and seemed to be trying to talk him down. 

“I won’t apologize or make excuses on his behalf, but PTSD can manifest in some unpleasant ways,” Francesco said. He forced himself to appear calm and stay diplomatic. It was that familiar flash of _I need an adult, wait, oh God, I need to BE the adult_. “Hans, you used to drive him as part of your job, right? I imagine you’re extra good at it. Special training. I imagine it stings even more, to be criticized.”

After Peter had conveyed this to Hans, Peter asked, “Does he treat you like this, too?”

“It’s happened a few times, but he’s gotten a lot better with professional help. We’ve developed a system where he can calm himself down without lashing out further in the meantime. He used to be much worse, but not to me. I’d have left long ago if he treated me the way he used to treat people. What makes me stay is knowing that this is really an expression of pain, that he always tries to make amends, and that he’s worked hard on improving.” Francesco rubbed his face in his hands. This was the most challenging de-escalation since the incident when Fritz had panicked and physically restrained him early in their relationship, as a misunderstanding had made Fritz think Francesco posed him a threat. But they'd talked it out and made sure it would never happen again. 

“Everything was fine, though,” Peter said, sounding like he was trying to understand rather than gaslight. Good for him.

Francesco cleared his throat. “I suspect the combination of ‘Hans is driving me, like the old days’ and ‘I have felt a moment of acute panic involving Hans, like a particular very bad day’ set him off.”

Peter and Hans talked amongst themselves for awhile. Francesco glanced through the window and saw that Fritz had tightly wound the scarf around his hands and was pulling on it like those resistance bands people used for strength training. Oh, well, if he damaged it, he’d buy Francesco a replacement. It wasn’t much trouble. 

Hans asked, in careful English he must have dredged from the depths of his mind, “How can we help him?”

A fraction of the tension in Francesco’s shoulders eased. “This is a retail sort of street. Is there a cafe near here? Can you go get a cup for him, please, Peter? Smallest size, no cream or sugar, with a generous sprinkling of black pepper if they have it. I know, it’s disgusting.”

“But how will you two talk to each other?” Peter asked.

“We’ll muddle through. It’s a toss-up whom Fritz will want to talk to first once he’s ready.” Also, Francesco thought Peter’s own ruffled feathers would benefit from a little walk to clear his head and a task to focus on. Francesco wouldn’t mind a break himself, but he had to settle for reducing the number of people he needed to referee.

Hans probably agreed, because once he knew what the idea was he whipped out his phone and found a coffee shop within a few blocks, and sent Peter off with a small kiss.

While Peter was gone, Francesco and Hans made their first effort to communicate directly. It wasn’t as bad as Francesco had feared. Through a combination of Hans’ barely-remembered English phrases, leaning on the cognates between French and Italian, and emergency googling, they had a deeper conversation than expected. They kept their voices low, given that pedestrians were passing them frequently. Hans talked about it being easier for him to forgive the outburst than it was for Peter, because Hans had seen some of what Fritz’s father had done to him. Hans was surprised that Fritz had managed to grow up with any softness at all, considering, and credited Fritz’s sister with a lot of it. Francesco talked about the dogs Fritz worked with at the shelter, how he especially devoted himself to caring for ones that had been mistreated, neglected, or forced to fight. Some things passed between them without words, and the implications of Fritz’s new passion was one of them. 

Peter got back with two hot drinks, one of which he handed to Hans. “Yes, they had pepper. No, I will never forget the looks I got. I would have bought you something too, Francesco, but I didn’t know what to get,” he said. 

“That’s quite alright. Thank you.” Francesco held the coffee snugly in both hands as he checked inside the car again. Fritz was now sitting more like a normal person, not someone strapped into a back brace, and they locked eyes. 

Fritz opened the door and asked to talk to Hans. Francesco smiled and handed Fritz his drink, then stepped back as Hans climbed into the backseat and let Fritz make his apologies in private.

“You’re a good guy. I’m not sure if I could take care of someone this way,” Peter said, leaning against the trunk.

“I doubt I could smuggle a badly injured and brokenhearted man out of captivity and nurse him back to health,” Francesco pointed out. 

Pete shrugged. “You never fully know what you can do until you must do it. Besides, even though Hans was messed up in a lot of ways, he was always himself. You have to deal with some other _thing_ that rears its ugly head and makes Fritz not himself.”

“It’s not himself as he is now, but it resembles someone he used to be, back when the only way he knew how to handle distress was to cause more. All that means that is not everything has gotten better at the same rate. It doesn’t mean those parts never will.” Francesco could have gone on, but that was enough. Couples therapy and experience didn’t mean this was easy. 

To lighten the mood, Peter started telling Francesco a funny story about one of the bussers at his restaurant trying to ask one of the waitresses on a date in a very roundabout way. For Francesco, the humor was less in the anecdote and more in how much Peter himself found it amusing. 

Before he’d finished, though, Hans got out of the car and gestured for Francesco to replace him. He had a relieved smile.

Francesco slid in beside Fritz and shut the door behind him with a soft click. “Hey.”

“Hey.” Fritz took a few deliberately steady breaths, put his coffee in a cupholder, and started putting Francesco’s scarf back around his neck for him. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. I think Peter doesn’t feel a need for his own apology, but he’d appreciate it. A quick one in front of everyone would be fine.”

“I trust your judgment.” Fritz leaned on his shoulder and sighed. “You know, I used to think that Hans had to be pulling strings for me in Heaven, because I couldn’t think of another reason the universe would have let me end up with you. Now I have no idea what the explanation could be.”

“I can’t say anything more eloquent than ‘aw’ to that.” Francesco squeezed his hand. “But really, you met me because you knew Voltaire, and how did you know Voltaire?”

“Because I helped him out of a tough spot.”

“By, shall we say, pulling some strings?” 

Fritz lifted their joined hands and kissed the back of Francesco’s. “I should tell you that I love you more often.”

“Likewise. I’ll add it to our calendar.”

“Let’s get your shopping done first. I promise not to grumble about your painstaking decision-making process. This time.” 

Francesco laughed and called the others in. Fritz kept his promise over the next few hours and insisted on paying.

Despite it not being their final goodbye, Hans surprised Francesco with a not-unwelcome hug before dropping them off at the hotel, and whispered, _“You are best for him now.”_

“Are you tearing up?” Fritz asked in the elevator. “What did he say to you?”

“What I’ve been needing to hear,” Francesco said, and clutched the packages close to his chest.

****

_bleeep_

_bLLEEEeeeeeep_

_BLEEeeeeEEEEp_

“Hello, Wilhelmine. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

“You’re welcome, Hans. My brother didn’t need to ask twice. Would you like to turn on the video option?”

“I’d rather not - it’s nothing to do with you, it’s just - I’d rather not.”

“That’s fine. I’m dressed for a lazy day at home in any case.”

“I mainly wanted to say thank you.”

“For what?”

“Being there for him. Consistently.”

“It seems odd to say ‘you’re welcome’ for that, but I appreciate the sentiment. I hope you don’t think I disliked you personally. That had bothered me from time to time before I found out you were alive.”

“You were concerned about the relationship.”

“I told myself at the time that all of it was me being protective, but looking back, I think I was also selfishly jealous at the idea of anyone knowing him better than I did, or of him loving someone more than he loved me.”

“Both of you were starved for the kind of love you should have had. And you never did me any harm, however you felt.”

“Thank you.”

“Fritz said I could ask you anything. How did you keep him from giving up music? It must have been you. I know nobody else was around to encourage him.”

“Oh, the first time I came home for a visit after he lost you - I suppose that verb is still accurate - I spent a few hours every evening in his room and encouraged him to play duets with me. Him on the flute, me on the guitar.”

“You don’t strike me as a guitar person.”

“Classical guitar. I couldn’t exactly haul a piano through the doorway.”

“Touché.”

“I secretly gave him a bunch of sheet music for when he was on his own as well, and made him promise to at least try everything.”

“How’d you get away with that?” 

“I don’t know if Fritz told you that he spent an extended period only allowed out of his bedroom for more training on how to run the - you know, the business - and exercise. My being allowed to visit him was his reward for perfect submission. It was horrible. He was turning into a wind-up toy soldier. Anyway, even the staff was disturbed by the draconian arrangement and didn’t mind helping him in small ways as long as they wouldn’t get in trouble for it. Which included swallowing my not-particularly-convincing stories about how all the sounds they might overhear were from him listening to some tapes I’d given him for Christmas. Over and over. Because he missed me while I was gone. They all nodded and smiled and said that made sense. We never had any trouble from that quarter.”

“I think that was vital in helping him stay as sane as he did.”

“I told him he should do what he must to survive, but I couldn’t bear the thought of him losing himself in the process.”

“I...I hope he tells you what a wonderful sister you are.”

“It hasn’t always been great between us, no matter what idealized pictures he claims, but the underlying love has been there. He’s been more obviously affectionate since freeing himself. I’m also glad for his help with my daughter. You know, I owe you thanks as well, if I follow your logic.”

“Do you? I gave him a lot of pain.”

“Our father gave him a lot of pain via you, but that wasn’t really your doing. The man was like a hurricane: all anyone could do against him was hunker down and try to stay as safe as they could. You gave my brother a bit of joy for awhile. Joy I couldn’t have given.”

****

Chev had entered Switzerland with a passport marked Male, so it was best for them to leave the same way. They dressed in jeans, sneakers, and a comfy hoodie before dropping off the keys to the apartment they had been staying in, then returning the car they’d been renting. They only had to wait a few minutes at the rental center before Peter and Hans arrived to pick them up.

“Take the front seat so Hans can sit in the back next to Fritz,” Peter said as he and Hans helped Chev with their luggage. “Oof, you have two very large suitcases for someone who is not very large.”

“Hey, I have to travel with twice as many clothes.” Chev felt light and airy inside now that they’d come out to their friends here. Pretending to be someone else was generally fun, otherwise they wouldn’t have taken it up as a standard strategy for their job, but the key word was _friends_. 

Once they were on the road, Hans cleared his throat and said, “Hey, Chev, Peter and I talked about it, and we’re not going to ask about your work. We’re too old and set in our ways to get involved in anything, ah, murky. But we know you take risks in the process. If you need to seek sanctuary for some reason, please get in touch. We won’t leave you to the wolves if we can help it.” 

After a long pause, Chev asked quietly, “Are you trying to make me cry?”

Peter flashed him a gentle smile. “We can detour for a few blocks if you need some time to compose yourself before we pick up the others.”

“I’m okay, but thanks. Really, very, very much thanks.” Chev looked out the window until they felt the lump in their throat subside. 

Fritz ended up in the middle of the backseat, sandwiched between his past and his present, as it were. (Hopefully his future as well. Chev didn’t think Fritz knew how to end relationships without at least one of them ending up fleeing to another country.) He reached over and handed Chev an envelope. “A bonus check. You’ve gone above and beyond what Francesco asked you to do, and I know your boss took a large cut of what Francesco paid to hire you. No arguments. I have more money stashed away than I like to make obvious. I would have preferred that Francesco not gone about this the way he did, but I can’t chastise him too much, given the results.”

“Thank you.” Reinette had informed Chev, just as amusing conversation between friends rather than a briefing between coworkers, that Francesco had come to the Agency seeking help laundering a staggering amount of Euros from a series of art forgeries and heists. His brother had perfected a system of replacing stolen paintings from private collections with excellent forgeries created by a small team of artists. Francesco had really only gotten involved to keep his brother safe from an ongoing investigation back home in Italy, but he’d been allowed to take a percentage for himself in exchange for doing this. It was that money which he’d reinvested in hiring Chev. Though Chev hadn’t overheard anything, they’d been pretty sure Fritz hadn’t been happy to know Francesco had gotten his hands dirty. 

"You should take some time off," Francesco said.

"At least a month, definitely." Chev peeked at the check and suppressed an undignified squee. They had gotten an email this morning from Mr. 15 offering a lucrative new assignment, and now Chev could pass it along to a certain colleague without taking too much of a loss. Jobs that would at least not be _hindered_ by attempting to seduce all the marks and many of the bystanders were a good fit for Casey Nova. He used sex like Chev used disguises, and he was welcome to it. Chev had a specific person they were planning to take to bed, thank you very much.

"Oh, and remind me to give you our gift for Pierre,” Francesco continued, as if he could read Chev's mind. “I was thinking of giving it to him in person, but now you two live four hours away rather than ninety minutes.”

Chev agreed, then translated Francesco’s statement to French and added, “We moved when my partner started on his Master’s. It made sense for us to go wherever was convenient for him, since I rarely have to go to a physical office.” They took a peek in the dash mirror and saw that Fritz and Hans were holding hands again, in full view. Aww.

“Are you comfortable telling us what he’s studying?” Hans asked.

“Linguistics. I don’t know how to say his exact specialty in a language other than English, but you get the idea. We’re closer to a lot of his friends since the move, and I get along with most of them. My friends and the friends he’s left behind are only about an hour away if the traffic is good.” Chev laughed. “I just realized that being friends with you two has doubled the number of real friends that I _didn’t_ meet though Pierre. I’m normally very guarded, and he’s almost alarmingly endearing.”

Fritz said, in French, “Speaking of people that have to be left behind because of something their partner needs, Peter, you never got that reward you were hoping for.”

“Thanks, but I got a much better one instead,” Peter said in English, playfully turning up his nose as high in the air as possible without taking his eyes off the road. “Keep your money.”

“I understood that,” Hans said. “We wouldn’t say no to some financial assistance for visiting you, though. That’s easier than it would be for you to come see us again. Isn’t it funny that I’m the one who is officially alive now?”

Fritz’s laugh was slightly higher-pitched than normal, but he settled down. “That’s a good plan. How about Robert? Chev said he has less than five years left in his sentence. Simply giving a man a huge sum of money is a quick way to ruin his life, but I was thinking of a temporary income so he has time and resources to establish himself in a legitimate livelihood. Don’t say it’s from me, though, say it’s from my heirs who were trying to follow instructions to have my ashes combined with my first love’s.”

“Was that something you really wanted?” Hans asked softly.

“In my first will, yes. Scattered in the English Channel. Later I decided I wanted to be buried next to my sister instead, which is still the case. Peter, what do you think about my plan for Robert? I’ll make you the trustee. We should do this properly with a legal contract.”

“That sounds best,” Peter said, sounding uncertain. “Shit, I haven’t even tried to call him yet.”

“Love, it’s been thirty years. He can wait another day for you to get your head together,” Hans said.

They got to the airport in time for Hans and Fritz to each get a beer at an airport restaurant bar, which seemed weighted with importance beyond Chev’s understanding. Chev didn’t ask. They’d pried enough into these peoples’ lives. Instead, they sat with Francesco and Peter for a light early lunch and talked about where Peter and Hans might like to go in the U.S.

During the farewells, Chev hugged both Hans and Peter. Fritz and Hans then faced each other awkwardly for several seconds until Francesco said, “Please. Our significant others have given you permission, and Chev has walked in on me kissing their Pierre to the point that it's become mundane.”

“What?” Peter asked.

“I told you, Pierre’s almost alarmingly endearing,” Chev said, smirking. “And I’m away from home a lot. I like that other people look after him. In Francesco’s case, he doesn't go past what would be decent in public, for Fritz’s sake. Hans, Francesco wants you to stop hesitating.”

So Fritz and Hans stopped hesitating and kissed each other goodbye. Only once, but lingering.

Chev sent a quick text to Ada to make sure only the five of them would pay any attention. The reply came immediately. _On it. Security will be smooth, too. Just get on that plane and dream of home._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All historical fun facts courtesy of mildred_of_midgard, as usual!
> 
> \- The first section is inspired by the real Old Fritz's bouts of anger that were likely masked PTSD flashbacks, including one where he berated and hit a carriage driver when the driver got in a minor accident that wasn't really his fault. He came to his senses partway through. 
> 
> -He liked pepper and mustard in his coffee. Ew.
> 
> \- Wilhelmine was actually abused quite badly too, especially by their mother, but I can only stomach writing so much abuse in one 'verse. She and Fritz were intensely devoted to each other as a result of being each other's only consistent source of affection for years (neither were nearly as close to their other siblings). She wrote opera libretti as a hobby, and two of the plots included the heroine killing her mother and the heroine accidentally falling in love with her brother. And she complained he didn't write to her enough and it would be sufficient for him to write "I love you" over and over. She only got married to her husband (a stranger) because her father agreed to treat her brother a little better if he did. And they wrote to each other letters roleplaying a romance between one of his dogs and one of hers. Meanwhile, he wrote a poem praying that he and she would die at the same time so they could never have to live without each other and would be laid to rest together. Neither happened. But all tragedy aside, he would have been much more of a jerk without her in his life. 
> 
> More to come!


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What a wonderful surprise this writing experience has been. Don't worry, I'm not done with these folks yet.

“Do you think that if I put an eyepatch on, Fritz would recognize me? I didn’t want to add even more emotions to the pot during such a short and fraught visit, but if we’re going to be visiting him at some point…”

“I doubt the lack of eyepatch was the primary reason that it didn’t occur to him that he might have met you _twice_. When he was _seventeen_. While over a dozen of us were all listening to his father give instructions on the major heist you were contracted to assist with, and it was just you staring at the son instead no matter how much your brother apparently kicked you under the table to get you to focus.” Hans spoke with gentle exasperation, not pausing in washing the dishes. “It’s not like I figured it out either until you told me. You weren’t interesting to either of us at the time, so I assume that once I decided you weren’t a threat, I stopped paying any attention to you. Little did we know.”

They were having a quiet Sunday at home two weeks after The Revelation, and a week and a half since Peter first mailed Robert a lengthy letter. Two days ago, Peter got a brief reply indicating willingness to talk on the phone. Now he was supposed to be making the actual phone call. Which he was going to do. Any minute now. Except he’d ended up spending the past forty minutes hovering around his partner, endlessly reminiscing about their misspent youths.

“It was only partly meant to be a disguise of sorts. The bigger factor was that I was always so afraid I’d drop my very distinctive glasses at a crime scene, and if I couldn’t have my glasses, it helped not having the distraction from one eye facing in a different direction. Back then my vision could cope well enough that way. And I didn’t want Robert’s colleagues making fun of my appearance.” Peter looked up the weather on his phone. “It’ll be two degrees warmer tomorrow.”

Hans reached for more dish soap. “Do you want me to sit next to you while you make the call, like I did when you wrote the letter?”

“Robert deserves as much privacy on both ends of the call as he can get, not that it's going to be much at all,” Peter mumbled, though the idea was tempting. “I’ll go onto the balcony. Don’t let me in until I tell you I’ve done it.”

“Deal.” Hans kissed him on the temple and nudged him away with his foot, since his hands were sudsy.

On the way, Peter grabbed Robert’s letter and the sticky note with the appropriate number and extension. He sat down and wondered why his fingers felt so damn heavy.

Well, he knew why. It was one thing to write words on a non-judgmental sheet of paper. It was one thing to hear someone’s voice, to hear reactions immediately, to make it all truly real.

Maybe he’d check his email again first. Last thing. Last. Thing. He found a new message from Chev - a cryptic one, with [nothing but a link and the words: “Hans said you’re stalling. ‘Always Gold.’ Lyrics start at 1:30.”](https://youtu.be/hzfU2VcVi9s)

Peter clicked on it, and it took him to a Youtube video playing a sweet, mellow song for over a minute until a voice began singing and words started appearing on the screen in tandem.

_We were tight-knit boys, brothers in more than name. You would kill for me and knew that I’d do the same. And it cut me sharp to hear that you’d gone away, but everything goes away, yeah, everything goes away. And I was there when you grew restless, left in the dead of night…_

Even though Robert claimed not to resent Peter, what was left of the brother he’d known? Having someone you loved and lost show up at your door was one kind of challenge. Deliberately seeking them out was no more or less of one, just different. Peter chewed on a stray hangnail as the song continued.

... _They said you were the crooked kind, that you’d never have no worth, but you were always gold to me..._

(Every single other person from Peter’s family shunned him after they found out he preferred men. But Robert had given their father a look of cold fury and followed Peter out the door.)

_...I am fine with where I am now, this home is home and all that I need. But for you, this place is shame. You can blame me until there’s no one left to blame. I don’t mind._

“Chev, you manipulative little bastard.” Peter wiped his eyes and dialed the number, said the right things to the right authorities, and waited on hold. Waited.

The voice was so much hoarser than Peter expected. Emotion? Age? A smoking habit? “Tell me something only you would know.”

Manipulative Little Bastard Chev had probably ramped up poor Robert’s paranoia, too, not that Peter wasn’t grateful for the results. He wasn’t sure how his throat could feel so tight while his chest could feel so bright and airy. “Let’s see. Give me a moment. Oh! You have a scar on your knee that you tell people is from a schoolyard fight but is actually from trying to ride a billy goat at a family farm at age five. Did some of our family really visit you, by the way? Because they told me repeatedly that I was going to Hell and they never wanted to hear from me again. And I’ve never raised a hand to anybody.”

Robert let out a short, sharp laugh. “Ah, but I showed remorse. Pleaded guilty, turned informant, found Jesus. I didn’t find the kind of Jesus they did, though, I found the kind who has given me hope while not deluding me into thinking I’m better than you.” Robert cleared his throat. “This isn’t a secure line. With that in mind, what’s going on with our...mutual friend?”

Peter peeked inside. “If you’re referring to the one you introduced to me, he finished cleaning up the kitchen just now and he’s probably gone back to our bedroom for a nap.”

“Your bedroom.”

“Uh huh.”

Robert paused long enough for Peter to get nervous, but then he said, with intense affection, “That’s wonderful. That really is.”

“You aren’t mad at me?”

“Why would I be? It wasn’t your plan.”

After a shaky breath, Peter said quietly, “Because I’ve been mad at me. It didn’t seem right to be happy without you.”

“That’s a stupid thought and you should stop thinking it.” Robert had always been the pragmatic one.

They weren’t able to talk for very long, but before Robert was required to hang up, they discussed their options for Peter to visit him soon. At the end of the discussion, Peter asked, “Is there something you’d like me to bring you that you’d be allowed to keep?”

“Photos of you two together,” Robert said without hesitation. “I spent so much time wondering if I did the right thing, sending you away.”

“I cannot overstate how much you did the right thing.”

“Good.” Then Robert added hopefully, “Also a pair of very soft and very thick socks? You know how I’m prone to cold feet.”

“I’ll get you three pairs,” Peter said.

****

Dear Peter and Hans,

I appreciate that both of you have written so often and in so much detail over the past month, even though I can never think of much to say back. It's the best reading material I've had in a long time. The little sketches Hans includes are great. It's nice to get to know him as a person. I hope we can meet properly soon.

Seeing Peter yesterday was more than I could have ever hoped for. It ended too quickly. I'm sorry I wasn't ready to answer his three big questions at the time, and even now I'm writing to both of you because I don't want to have to tell the story twice. It's not exactly a bad memory, only heavy.

Easiest answer first: I wasn't planning to keep the contraband that visitor offered me. Being caught with it wouldn't have been worth it. My plan was to turn it over to the guards and impress them with my good behavior. I wouldn't have told her Hans was alive just for that, though. I felt guilty afterwards for possibly betraying you two, and I mostly did it because I felt so startled and intimidated by her questioning. Felt like a coward. A small part of it might have been wanting to tell someone at last. I never thought the results would turn out so well.

Second, what was going through my head "that fateful night"? I spent a lot of last night thinking about it. There was the idea of being rewarded, of course. But I've never told anyone that I knew Peter had a little crush on Junior, and that I couldn't stop thinking about how easily it could have been Peter strapped to that table and a barely-conscious mess. Back then I could turn my compassion off with excuses, justifying my sins and calling them professional necessity. But I couldn't do it that night. I also knew Peter was thinking of skipping town anyway. And I knew he's always had a big heart.

As to how I got away with it, a smart boss doesn't post just one guard to an important duty. I'd never liked the one I was paired with for that shift. He didn't turn compassion off, more like I don't think he knew the concept. Treated prisoners badly for fun. Treated anyone weaker than him badly for fun.

You see, there was a big stash of medical supplies in the room, because torturing someone without killing them is a fine line. Which included a good supply of tranquilizers. So the other guard ended up sleeping through the whole thing. After sending Hans off, I tidied up and then gave myself a bunch of injuries before my "colleague" woke up. It was easy to get others to believe the other guard accepted a bribe and overcame me. He was known to be in debt from his drug habit, and he was unpopular among the ranks while I was well-liked. That Keith charm, I suppose. I didn't see what happened to him, but he disappeared a few days later. I know that was wrong, too, but I admit I don't feel as bad for what I did to him as I have for the other harm I've done.

I'll always have regrets, but those were my last secrets to tell. Maybe that's a form of freedom all by itself.

Your (both of yours) affectionate brother,  
Robert

****

The dream was a variation on a nightmare Fritz had suffered a dozen-odd permutations of for years. Sometimes it was a faithful recreation of Hans' supposed execution. Other times, the casting would shift: Fritz shooting Sophia while Mina was forced to watch, for example. They all ended the same way. They never ended properly at all. Whoever Fritz was inhabiting would pass out, either before the gunshot or immediately after. His mind's eye wouldn't let him see what happened next.

This time, though, his eighteen-year-old body fainted - but Fritz stayed aware, stepping out of his body like he was peeling off a drenched raincoat. Everyone had frozen in place. He drifted over to Hans and tried to free him, help him up, or even simply speak to him, but Fritz was now a voiceless, incorporeal spirit whose hands went right through his lover's body.

Then a young Peter Keith descended from a rope ladder that Fritz accepted the presence of, in the way of dream logic. Fritz couldn't hear anything Peter said, but he watched him do everything Fritz couldn't. Watched them stagger away together, Peter providing support but Hans moving on his own power.

He followed them through a kaleidoscope of random settings. Tunnels and office buildings, dungeons and forests, hospital waiting rooms and dark alleys. They ended up in a fairly accurate replica of their real-life home, though some of the architecture looked vaguely like gingerbread. Right before the pair went inside, Hans turned around and smiled warmly at Fritz. He looked happy. Settled.

Fritz was about to follow them over the threshold, but he felt a hand on his shoulder. Francesco was there, holding out a stocky green plant bursting with yellow flowers. "There you are. I was looking for you."

"Do you think they'll be okay?" Fritz asked.

"I think they've _been_ okay, and maybe it's your turn. Just a thought." Francesco gave him the flowers and took his hand. His solid, real hand.

"This is shaped a bit like broccoli."

"That's because it is." Francesco grinned and started leading him away.

"I didn't know broccoli could bloom," Fritz continued, examining it as they walked together.

"That's because you're not used to seeing things get the time they need to bloom. Come on, let's go home."

(Fritz never had that particular nightmare again.)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- Historical Robert Keith got metaphorical cold feet about the escape plan, this one gets literal cold feet. Badum tish. 
> 
> \- Historical Algarotti sent King Frederick broccoli seeds from Italy. Had to do something with that. Broccoli flowers are adorable, too. 
> 
> \- I used a snippet of "Always Gold" in my fic "Wedding Present", applying it to Alexander Hamilton and James Hamilton Jr, but I figure there's no reason for Chev not to know it as well. 
> 
> Stay safe and well as you can, gentle readers. Thank you so much. I have fics in other fandoms I need to attend to, but I promise I'll be back in this 'verse before long.


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